You Could Have Told Me
by Karin-Sama3
Summary: College AU where Lance is a driven pre-med student unfavorably partnered on a project with a raven-haired slacker who has been cutting class for two weeks. After an angry confrontation leading to Keith staying over at Lance's apartment, Lance learns that he shouldn't judge people too quickly. I've written the story I wanted to read and thought I'd share.
1. Stalker Book Club

**Author's Note: Ok, confession time. I am a sucker for College AU stories. They are my favorite. Even better? College AU with tons of vulnerability. Bring it on. This story showed up in my head out of nowhere, extremely demanding. I meant to write the sequel to Fight Like This, but this . . .this wants to be first. I'm going to do my best to keep at it in a timely fashion. I'm going to do my best to keep it short. However, for the first time I'm writing exactly the type of story I'm searching for when I'm reading, so who knows how long it'll take to get it out of my system. And I'm putting it out here in case some of you enjoy this kind of thing as much as I do. **

**You Could Have Told Me**

**Chapter One: Stalker Book Club**

"Not again!" Lance burst out, staring at his phone.

"Geeze! Lance, could you keep the dramatics below 130 decibels for me? I'm trying to weld really tiny wires together," Hunk requested from their dining room table, which at the moment was completely covered in a variety of pliers, wire, gears, bits of PVC pipe and plastic, a hand-drawn schematic, and a can of Coke. . . which Hunk maintained he was not drinking but using as some sort of caustic agent.

"Can you believe he canceled on me _again_?" Lance vocalized his annoyance, though he did gentle his tone, shoving his phone into his scrubs pocket so he could slip into his coat. "The write-up is due on Monday, but I can't even start unless I sit down and talk to this freak for at least twenty minutes. You'd think he could find a measly half an hour in the whole fourteen days we had for this assignment, wouldn't you?"

"So corner him after class and follow him," Hunk suggested mildly, selecting a miniature screwdriver from the assortment on the table.

"That'd be a great idea," Lance acknowledged, rearranging the contents of his backpack in furious little jerks of motion, tossing his chemistry book on his bed and replacing it with early child development. "If he ever came to class!"

"Can you talk to the professor? Get an extension or a different partner or something?"

Lance paused, calming down a little thanks to Hunk's steady voice and practical commentary. The stuff he said always made so much sense that it always struck Lance hard that he hadn't thought of it first. The finality of admitting defeat by whining to the teacher helped Lance find another round of charity toward his difficult project mate. He didn't want to be that guy.

"He says he should be back on campus tomorrow, so I'll give him one more chance. If he blows me off again, then I'll see about getting a different partner," Lance planned, shrugging on his backpack over the bulkiness of his coat sleeves and standing in front of Hunk. "Ok, I'm off; you can weld in peace," he said, changing the subject. "How do I look?" Hunk barely glanced at him.

"Dude, you look like you always do. You're wearing scrubs and a lab coat like every other tech in the place. If you want to impress her, you're going to have to actually, like, talk to her." Yeah, Hunk always made too much sense.

"I do talk to her!" Lance protested, a little weakly.

"Taking her vitals doesn't count as a conversation," Hunk pointed out. "Buck up and ask her out already, would you? Bring her here; I'll cook. You can have the place to yourselves, but please, if you have ever cared about me at all, would you please ask her out so I don't have to keep listening to you pining over her?"

Lance fought the urge to throw his mittens at Hunk's face. He was making way too many points today.

"Yeah, yeah," he committed, nonchalantly. "Don't forget it's my turn for the table tomorrow to repack my med bag. You'll have to find another home for all that tech junk." Hunk hurriedly placed his large hands over the piles of random, like a mother covering a child's ears to prevent them from hearing something inappropriate.

"It's not junk!" He protested. "It's a –"

"Tell me later," Lance interrupted, already on his way out. "I don't want to be late." He could practically hear Hunk shaking his head as he closed the door behind him.

His amusement lasted all of five steps outside, which is when he almost slipped on a patch of ice. A bit of ungraceful flailing saved him from going down, but it made him question, again, why he'd picked a college so far north. Surely, he could have gotten into a pre-med program somewhere a little warmer? Like UCSD? He wondered if they would have required him to take a ridiculous English course. A ridiculous English course with a stupid assignment to interview and then write a biography on one of your emo, absent classmates who kept making plans to meet and then rescheduling. Yeah, he was certain UCSD would have never done this to him.

Come to think of it, though, he'd never responded back after receiving the last text. Checking ahead to make sure the sidewalk was shoveled and ice-free, he pulled out his phone again, reading the latest from his partner one more time.

"Stuck in meetings," it said. "Tomorrow at 7?" Lance assumed he meant evening. He actually couldn't do tomorrow at seven; he'd be working. But he could do eight or eight-thirty. But did he dare ask for that kind of change? Maybe it'd be easier to ask his supervisor to get off early – this dude's schedule was tighter than the lid on a leaky tube of crazy glue. On the other hand, he'd already been bending over backwards the last ten days whenever a new time was suggested, and he was more than sick of it. Because really, what kind of meetings could he possibly have going on that would require this kind of flaky behavior?

"I can do eight-thirty tomorrow," he typed. "Meet you at the library by that picture of James Joyce."

"Last chance, psycho," he said to himself, replacing his phone and his mitten. Then he plunged both hands in his pockets, hunched his face deeper into his scarf, and tried to pretend he was home on a beach as he froze all the way to the donation center on Maryland Avenue, part of the on-campus hospital.

It wasn't a requirement to be in any kind of med program to work as a lab technician, but it certainly had helped Lance get the job. For twenty miscellaneous hours a week, he collected plasma donations from his fellow students and sometimes members of the community. Working there meant he didn't have to actually donate his own plasma in order to buy groceries. And it meant that every Wednesday, usually around six, he would see Allura Lyons.

She'd been coming pretty steady all of last semester and had continued into this one. Allura was in the one percent of the donation crowd. The other ninety-nine did it for the money. Allura didn't need the money; she did it because she felt it was her duty to help humanity. Lance was completely fascinated by her. The moral obligation was just one part of her charm; it didn't hurt at all that she was the most exotic kind of gorgeous he'd ever seen. White-blonde hair, dark skin, eyes the multi-color that crystals are when you try to take pictures of them, a very specific shade of light blue and almost pink and lit from within at the same time. And even though it had nothing to do with anything, Lance couldn't get over the fact that she wore a perfectly white peacoat.

The first time he'd met her, she'd dropped her book trying to turn the page one-handed. Sometimes it took forty-five minutes to complete a donation, so lots of students brought stuff to study while they were in the chairs. He happened to be right there when the book fell, so he'd picked it up and helped her find her place again. He couldn't remember the title of that first one, but he looked at them all now. Spied on the title, checked them out at the library, and read them so they could have something to start a conversation over.

Except he never got that far. He'd read_ Pride and Prejudice_, _The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society,_ _The Da Vinci Code, _and _Gone, Girl_ all without ever saying a word to her about any of them. No wonder Hunk teased him. What kind of idiot stayed up until four in the morning reading Jane Austen for a girl without ever letting her know that he'd done it?

"Hey Lance," one of his coworkers called him, five minutes to six, right on schedule. "Your girl's here." Everyone who worked with him knew about his crush; he wasn't exactly subtle. He thought there was a gambling pool on whether or not they'd actually go on a date, but he didn't want to ask what the odds were. He grabbed Allura's chart from the wall and crossed the floor to where she was seated in the waiting area, hunching over a little bit as he walked as if his racing heart could be seen through two layers of clothes. It never changed. It never mattered how often he looked at her. It had the same effect on him every single time.

"Must be Wednesday," he said as he approached, hoping his voice sounded casual. "I've got your chair ready for you, Allura."

She smiled at him, grabbing her bag and standing. That was another thing to prove they were made for each other. Allura stood a model five foot nine inches tall, the perfect complement to his six one. He gestured for her to make herself comfortable in the donation chair as he grabbed a new kit to hook her up with. Then he tried to make unawkward small talk.

"How was your week?" He began, a safe question, as he attached a blood pressure cuff to her upper arm. She preferred to donate from the left, leaving her dominate hand free for whatever she'd brought with her to do. She already had her book out, a new one, but it was upside down and under her palm, so he couldn't see the title yet.

"Chaotic," she answered vaguely, in her beautiful accent. He knew it was British, but couldn't guess exactly where. When he asked her where she was from once, she'd raised her eyebrow and said Oak Brook. He'd had to look it up, disappointed to see it was not in Europe at all. It was on the top ten list of wealthiest suburbs in Chicago. Which explained why she didn't need the money.

Lance wished she'd elaborate on what chaotic might mean for her. But he didn't ask. Instead he focused very hard on what he was doing, scrubbing her arm sterile with iodine, peeling bits of medical tape from the roll in his pocket so he could secure the line once he'd gotten it started. He never wanted her to ask for any other tech but him, so he made sure to be as gentle as possible easing needles into her vein. He didn't want to hurt her.

"Little sting here," he warned her, because no matter how good you were, and Lance had been told that he was actually very good, he was still piercing through skin with something sharp, using his thumb to press down and line up where he needed to insert, holding her arm still and steady, expertly slipping the point in place and covering it with a piece of gauze. "Like so. That all right?"

"Perfect," she assured, and his soul melted a little bit as they made eye contact. Yes, you are. He hooked up the tubes and pushed the necessary buttons on the centrifuge, setting it for 750 mL. He heard a beeping from another chair in his area. Someone was finished.

"I'll come check you in a few minutes," he promised, allowing himself to brush two fingers against her hand in parting. As he turned, removing his gloves to exchange them for fresh ones, it hit him that he'd actually never once touched her skin to skin.

The center was getting busy, which was normal for the evening. But it meant that by the time Lance made it back to Allura, she was over halfway through her cycle. She had her legs drawn up, resting the book against her thighs, hand draped over the top of it to keep it open. It was larger than the books she usually brought, hardcover, tiny print.

"How are we doing over here?" He alerted her to his presence. "Feeling ok?" He knew she was ok. Her vitals were fine; her color was amazing. She'd done this many times before. She raised her eyes to him and nodded.

"What are you reading?" He asked since he couldn't decipher it from the way she was holding it this time. He hoped it wasn't more Austen. She twisted her wrist without speaking, allowing him to see. _Mountains Beyond Mountains_, a biography about Paul Farmer. Lance felt a little zing of excitement. He'd already read that! Not only that . . .

"Oh cool, I met him once," he told her, with perhaps a little too much enthusiasm, the words coming out of his mouth before he had really planned on whether or not it would be a good idea. "Dr. Farmer – I mean." Allura's eyes widened in surprise. It was the first time Lance had ever gotten any kind of emotional response from her.

"You did?" She questioned, tone interested and eager. Right? That's what Lance was hearing anyway. Definitely interested. "Where?"

"In Cuba," he answered, praying that he wouldn't stutter or forget English words. Two things he never did, but this was the most interaction they'd ever had so he was in new territory. "Mostly he works in Haiti, but he comes to Cuba every so often. He gave a lecture near my hometown once when I was in high school."

"That's amazing," Allura told him, which made his knees feel weird, like they weren't going to hold him anymore. "I'm supposed to do a report about him for my humanities class."

Another beep across the floor. Lance groaned inwardly. He'd have to go over there to see what that was, abandoning all the progress they were making. "Be right back," he said. Except it took longer than he thought. He cleared a clotted line, restocked the carts, started a new donor, walked one who was finished over to the cashier. You had to walk them over just in case they fainted. It didn't happen often, but it was a possibility. He didn't have another minute to spare for Allura until it was her machine doing the beeping. Lance glared at one of the newer techs who had started toward her, and he suddenly found somewhere else he needed to go. Lance hurried over.

"Great job," he congratulated, shutting down the machine and beginning the process of disconnecting Allura from it, gently removing the tape, folding a new patch of gauze into a tight square and pressing it on top of the needle. In one smooth motion, he'd slipped it out of her. "You know what to do," he said, but she was already lifting her arm, pressing hard on the gauze square to stop the bleeding.

"I was thinking," Allura said slowly as Lance gathered the used tubes for biohazard waste. He paused, unsure what to do. She hardly ever initiated any conversation. "If you had some time, maybe we could get together and talk about your experience with Paul Farmer. It would make an excellent addition to my report to see that his influence has extended to students of our university, don't you think?"

Lance missed the waste container, dropping the tubes straight onto the floor. He felt heat in his face and ducked down as quickly as possible, narrowly missing knocking his head against the corner of the cart that held the centrifuge, gathering up the tubes. Was she asking him out? Is that what was happening? Although Allura had been the one doing the donating, it was Lance who felt lightheaded all of a sudden.

"Uh, well, yeah, sure," he stammered, hating himself for it. Then hating himself even more when he couldn't seem to shut up. "I mean, if you think it would help. Yeah, we can chat about it. It was pretty much how I decided I wanted to be a doctor, really. He's an awesome guy. Where should we meet? At my place, maybe? Or yours, or you know, where ever you want." Holy crow, Lance, shut the hell up! "I mean – when?" He finally finished, turning his head away. Real smooth, idiot, he chastised himself.

She had a rather amused expression on her lips now, her eyes sparkly. He could only look at her out of the corner of his eye.

"Friday?" She suggested, calmly, magnanimously ignoring everything he'd just done. "At seven? I'll already be at the Regenstein library; do you think you could meet me there?"

"Yeah, cool. Sounds great," Lance replied, drowning in dopamine. "I'll see you then." He nodded, pivoting, ready to make an exit before he did anything else stupid.

"Um, excuse me!" Allura called after him, and he turned to look over his shoulder, wondering what she could have to add. "Aren't you going to finish my bandage?" It took a lot of effort not to smack himself in the face. She was sitting there with her arm still raised, looking confused.

"Ha," Lance half-laughed, not knowing how he was going to go out with her on Friday since it suddenly seemed a really good idea to go drown himself in Lake Michigan. "Yeah, let's take care of that."

He kept his mouth closed and eyes down, purposefully not looking at her so he could finish what he had to do on autopilot. Even though his insides were trembling, his hands were steady as he carefully lowered her hand and wrapped it with blue gauze. He heard himself tell her the required precautions she should follow after a donation, having said those words so many times already that he could do it without any conscious effort. The comfort of the routine relaxed him. He even managed the courage to lightly place his hand on the small of her back as she stood from the chair, and he left it there as he walked her over to the cashier.

Before he moved on to attend to his other donors, she rummaged in her bag for a notebook and pen and scribbled her number down for him. "See you Friday," she said, smiling. He didn't trust his brain not to betray him, so he simply nodded.

It was a good thing that he was so used to the rhythm of the donation center. By the time he was finished with the rest of his shift and was once again standing outside with his coat on walking home, he realized that he couldn't remember doing a single thing after Allura had left. He checked his pocket again, making sure that precious slip of paper was still there. Friday. They'd be together in the library; he would figure out a speech by then of what he was going to say because obviously he couldn't be trusted with improv. Oh! And he could actually be wearing clothes for once!

Hunk had been busy while he'd been gone; he opened the door to a mostly clean table and the most heavenly scent coming from the kitchen. Hunk wasn't actually taking any classes this semester; he was waiting to see if some special internship position was going to come through from JPL, so he was keeping his options clear. Lance's fancy, minority scholarship had taken care of the fees for their on-campus apartment, so instead of money, they'd arranged for Hunk to pay his share in domestics.

"Hunk, you are the best roommate a guy could ever hope for," Lance said, still giddy from the piece of paper he had in his pocket, the bracing winter air he'd just stepped out of, the cozy atmosphere of the apartment. "Marry me, won't you?"

"You know I can't," Hunk recited as he ladled up clam chowder into bread bowls. Lance sprung proposals on him every few days or so, savoring the joke of how Hunk was practically a housewife already. Hunk took it in good stride, but when Lance did it when Pidge was over, she usually rolled her eyes hard enough to almost fall off her chair. Pidge was also waiting on the outcome of the internship; they'd applied together, both of them aspiring astrophysicists. "It wouldn't be fair to the world if I were to settle down with just one person."

"You two are the biggest dorks I've ever seen."

Oh, so Pidge was here. Lance should have known. She joined them from the bathroom, her tone sharp but her eyes affectionate. He actually liked it when she had dinner with them, which was often. And when they brought all their super-smart, adorably awkward physicist buddies over too. It made it feel more like the home he'd left when the apartment was full of friends and good food, the atmosphere chatty and warm.

"Hey, Pidge," Lance greeted, removing all his winter gear and tossing it on the camp chair that no one remembered where it came from but they were still using as a coat rack. "Any word yet?" He already knew the answer to that; if they'd heard good news, he would have come home to a party. And if it had been bad . . . Hunk would probably be a sobbing mess of disappointment on the sofa. It was a relief that they'd applied together. It meant that they would be accepted together; neither of them would go without the other.

"No," Hunk said, wilting slightly. Every day that went by without a call or letter from California drained a little more hope from Hunk. Pidge remained undaunted, though.

"Could be any day, now," she maintained, certain. "For sure we'll know before the end of February."

"Because the positions start on March first?" Lance guessed.

"Precisely," Pidge complimented, missing that Lance had been half-teasing her. They automatically took seats at the table as they spoke while Hunk set down plates and spoons. It felt snug and pleasant, Lance's little college family all together on a winter evening. Even though it was way too cold outside, even though he was so far away from his real family and missed them terribly, he had to admit that his life was pretty good.

"So Lance, how was work?" Hunk asked, sitting down himself. Actually – life was very good. Going just the way he wanted it to.

"Oh yeah, it's Wednesday, isn't it?" Pidge interjected, tearing into her bread bowl. "What's the newest title in your stalker book club?" Lance looked up from the spoon he'd just put in his mouth, stamping this moment in his emotional memory, the moment right before he dropped the news that even though they'd been laughing at him for over a semester, he had Allura's number in his pocket.

"It's a biography on Paul Farmer," Lance replied, trying to keep his voice smooth. Like this wasn't very exciting. Like it'd been his plan all along. "She's doing a report."

"Sounds . . . riveting," Pidge said, unconvinced, obviously not remembering how much of an influence Dr. Farmer had been in Lance's life.

"Wait, isn't that the guy who you heard speak once?" Hunk said, slowly, as if he wasn't quite sure and didn't want to be accused of only half-listening to Lance when he talked about his motivation, inspiration, and life goals.

"Same one," Lance confirmed, impressed that Hunk had stored away such a small detail. "So it seemed only logical for me to offer to help her get a little more in-depth material seeing as I actually met him."

"Too bad you probably didn't mention it to her," Pidge lamented, teasing, knowing full well how often Lance's intentions made it into reality, particularly when it came to his love life.

"Oh yeah?" Lance shot back, pulling the slip of paper from his pocket and slapping it on the table like a winning poker hand. "Then why are we getting together on Friday to talk about it?"

"Lance, dude!" Hunk boomed, congratulatory. Pidge snatched up the paper, examining it like a merchant inspecting the possibility she might be holding counterfeit currency. Hunk punched him in the arm. "Good for you, man."

"You sure this is her number?" Pidge had the audacity to ask, tainting the moment. "Did you test it to make sure she didn't give you one to the humane society or something?" Lance felt a sliver of doubt pierce his heart. It hadn't occurred to him that stuff like that happened. She'd asked him after all. He guessed it could be a set up, but he dismissed it rapidly. People who actually went to the trouble of donating plasma in the middle of the winter every single week were probably above that kind of wickedness.

"Have a little faith," he said, leaning over the table to take his number back, putting it into his mental check list to get it into his phone pronto as the paper suddenly seemed a little fragile to him now.

They finished eating, concluding with a brief but intense argument between Hunk and Pidge on whether or not it was Pidge's turn to do the dishes. Lance actually won the point for Hunk as he broke in with a very quiet but clear, "Freeloaders clean." He didn't know why he bothered. It was only a few minutes before Hunk was standing at the sink with her, both of them scrubbing, rinsing, and drying while chatting a million miles an hour about the whatever-it-was that Hunk had been tinkering with earlier, on its purpose and functionality, and on the upcoming test they were going to conduct with it to see if it really was going to do what Hunk had intended when he made it.

Lance sat relaxed at the table, just watching them, not understanding half of what they were saying. Something about the space station and the legality of broadcasting music; Pidge was adamant in the affirmative, but Hunk wanted a cited reference. One of them had the music in question playing on their phone as they worked. It sounded familiar, but Lance didn't know the title or artist.

"Lance? Hey!" He startled, blinking fast to reorient himself as their conversation melded around him again.

"Huh?" He said, wondering how long and how far he'd strayed from their talking.

"He's all blissed out," Pidge noted, smiling indulgently at him and slipping her arms around his neck, her hands still a little wet from the dishwater. Pidge was literally the smartest person Lance knew, though Hunk came in at a quick second, packaged in a four-foot three frame of dynamite. She didn't express affection physically often, so when she did, he took advantage of it; this time grabbing her tight and pulling her in close. He knew she'd only allow it for fifteen seconds max, but it was worth the annoyed squawking when she got tired of it. He didn't get near as many hugs in a day as he'd like or was used to, so he'd take them where ever he could, willingly or not.

"You're so pathetic," she whispered kindly into his ear. "Now let me go."

"So anyway," Hunk redirected him as he detached himself from Pidge. "I know it's your turn for the table, but can Pidge and I do a quick look-see at my transmitter? Because you aren't going to do your thing until tomorrow, right?"

"Go ahead," Lance told them, standing. It was study time for him anyway. "Try not to stay up all night?" He loved them both dearly, but it always weirded him out when he found them still at it in the morning – the late hours working them into a disheveled frenzy. A little too close to the mad scientists of old movies for his comfort level.

They waved him off; the table quickly disappearing as Hunk and Pidge began the elaborate set up of whatever they were going to need. Lance had a moment of guilt looking at them. Hunk remembered his heart-felt ranting about Paul Farmer, but Lance didn't have a single clue as to what was going on with that transmitter. He promised himself that he would have Hunk show him sometime tomorrow.

And yet, as with many of his good intentions, he ended up simply running out of time. Pidge was missing when he returned to the kitchen shortly after sunrise, and he could hear Hunk snoring softly from his bedroom. The table was still cluttered with a little note:

"We had to choose – clear the table or not stay up all night. I'll do it later -promise!"

Lance wasn't too worried. He started the coffeemaker, moving quietly so as not to disturb his gentle roommate. By the time he'd finished the shortened version of his yoga routine, the pot was ready to transfer to his travel mug. He poured in half the liquid, leaving the rest for Hunk. Thursdays were full days – biology lab for the entire morning, a quick, kind of early lunch (oh yeah, from the fridge, don't forget it), child development, chemistry, repacking and organizing his med bag, and his longest shift at work. Then the library for the English assignment. Maybe.

Lance checked his phone, actually surprised he hadn't received a cancellation text from his mysterious and flaky-as-hell partner yet. This might be really happening after all. Weird. While he had his phone out, he entered Allura into his contacts, feeling more secure once he had the number in two places.

"Bye Hunk," he whispered simply for the tradition of the thing, pulling the door shut behind him. It was the last thing he did slowly all day.

His mother told him, half fondly and half in exasperation, that Lance had been born with something to prove. Consequently, he moved through his life as though he were always running late. Other children learned to walk at sixteen months? Lance started at nine and was swimming shortly after that. By kindergarten, he could read not only in his native Spanish but he had a pretty good grasp on English as well. And by the time he was ten, he could mimic just about any of the accents of the one million tourists that flocked to the beaches of Varadero each year, a trick that earned him trust and tips from visitors who needed a guide or information. Now he spoke English with a Chicago accent so perfect that no one ever asked him where he came from – making it an accomplishment that sort of canceled itself out because he'd done it so well that no one knew it had been an accomplishment. But that was fine. Because Lance never did anything halfway, including throwing himself into the medical field after hearing that one speech from the Harvard-trained Dr. Farmer. And the way that man had spoken of the great need the world had of qualified help, of people willing to make a difference, had created in Lance an urgency and determination. He was going to become a doctor, a pediatrician, and he was throwing all his energy into that, but he also couldn't wait. He had to start relieving suffering right now. Today.

This was why, even though he was only in his second year of pre-med, a time when he should just be working on generals, biology, chemistry, and similar, this was why he already kept a fully stocked emergency medical kit. Why he had already gone through several volunteer EMT courses. He not only knew CPR – he was qualified to teach it to other civilians and medical personnel. He'd trained himself in first aid and wormed his way into the hearts of the staff at the campus hospital. One of the doctors even allowed him to shadow him on occasion and gave him time on Sunday afternoons to pester him with questions. Some of his skills he had not yet put into practice in real life, but in theory, he could place sutures, deliver babies, insert trach tubes, restart hearts, and splint broken bones. It didn't bother him that he had a long way to go before he could introduce himself as a proper MD, provided that in his heart he knew that he was doing all in his power to get there. Check marks on a list, continual progress toward the ultimate goal. Something ingrained into his personality.

They'd talked about it once – Lance with Hunk, Pidge, and a behavioral psychology book open on the table in front of them, studying about the S.T.A.R. system. It had been Lance's homework, but since it had the word "star" in it, the other two had put down their astrological charts to listen to him. They'd figured out pretty quickly that Pidge was the T – technical, hungry for knowledge, and logical. Hunk was the R – into relationships, empathy, and morality. Then they'd debated back and forth on whether Lance was more of an action-oriented A or a systems-driven S. In the end, they'd concluded S – citing his passion for lists as evidence.

"We should find ourselves an A," Hunk suggested. "Get a complete set." The structure of that idea sounded good to Lance too, but when Pidge said that it sounded too much like a boy band, they had moved on. Lance sometimes still thought of himself as an A, particularly when his schedule seemed over the top – but then he would find himself contentedly standing in his Stony Island apartment with all his medical accoutrements spilled out all over the table that he was structurally ordering and organizing into his bag. The ritual of that, checking each article and putting it into place, restocking things like band-aids, tape, and painkillers, confirmed that his friends were right. He was an S.

He couldn't help it, though. He liked it. Thrived on it. Most of the time, it served him well. But then there were times, like now, actually, sitting here fuming under the picture of an equally frustrated-looking James Joyce, where being an S meant that you hated it when plans went off, when things changed too quickly without notice. Lance had a schedule, and he wanted it to be respected.

Lance checked his phone. 8:50 pm. No sign of his partner. No word from him at all. Where the hell was he? How come he didn't have the decency to at least say he wasn't coming again? What sort of person did that kind of inconsiderate garbage? Lance was sitting there still in his scrubs, starving, an ache in his lower back from the hours he'd spent hunched over tubes and monitors. His hands were chapped from how many times he'd had to wash them at work today, from the cold that penetrated his mittens and the stupid Walgreens gloves that he wore underneath. He didn't want to be here either. He wanted to be at home, eating a late dinner and listening, actually listening to Hunk talk about his transmitter and where the space station was and when it would be close enough to actually try out his thingamajig. Maybe he should switch and write the biography on Hunk instead. How would his teacher even know? He checked the phone again. He'd give him until close – the last possible second to make good on his promise that they'd meet today.

Not one to waste time and needing a distraction, Lance took his uncomfortable fury and plunged it deep into his coursework, which he had brought with him for this exact reason, somehow knowing in his soul that he was going to be stood up again. He read the next child development chapter, balanced some chemistry equations, and finally started writing the biography assignment based solely on his perception of his partner. It was full of snark and judgement, but it felt so good to bash it all down on paper, a disorganized diatribe of disappointment.

"Keith Kogane is the poster child of irresponsibility," he began with the surest of thesis statements and went on and on about Keith's many, varied, and completely fabricated faults. Why not? It wasn't like he was here to set the record straight. "He's horrible at communication, lacking in integrity, broody, a slacker and a future drain on the community." Lance even knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that whenever a loud car or motorcycle screeched past a window in the dead of night, squealing tires or revving motors, ripping decent people from their sleep – most assuredly, every time, no matter where in the country he happened to physically be, it was Keith's fault.

He wrote until the library announced closing time, scrawling in conclusion that he was putting all six of his names on this essay, because he had never spoken a single, non-written word to Keith and this was definitely a one-man effort performed by me, myself, and I. Then he closed the notebook, zipped up his backpack, and headed home. He'd talk to the professor in the morning about it, explain that he'd given Keith more chances than he thought should be required of any patient, mortal student, and he simply had to find an alternative. He was unwilling to be held accountable for Keith's truancy. He was in college, for heaven's sake! Wasn't it way beyond time to have to do shitty things like picking up all the slack for group assignments? Wasn't that grade school stuff? The stakes were higher now; if he wanted to be a doctor, he had to graduate college. If he wanted to continue in college, he needed his scholarship. In order to keep his scholarship, he had to maintain near perfect grades. And while he didn't exactly know what a missing English 101 biography would do as far as his overall GPA, it just felt wrong to lose points on something so simple. What if he needed that decimal cushion for something more serious?

Being pissed actually kept him warm on the fifteen-minute walk back to the apartment. Or at least he hadn't noticed the cold as much as he normally did. Or maybe he was just too tired to pay any attention. Thursdays were such long days.

He'd no sooner opened his door when Hunk grabbed him, coat, backpack and all, and he felt himself relax into it gratefully. It wasn't exactly home, but damn it was a good substitute.

"Where have you been?" Hunk accused. "It's ten-thirty! Did you get dinner? Were you going to let me know?" He kept it up as he stripped Lance of his coat, scarf, and mittens and gently seated him at the table. Lance was too tired to do anything except submit, noticing that Hunk was already in his pajamas. Apparently without Pidge around, he wasn't planning another late night messing around with wires.

"No worries, Hunk; I was at the library. I thought you knew?" It wasn't like either of them needed permission to be anywhere, nor did they really have a curfew, but out of friendship and for safety's sake they usually kept tabs on each other's schedules.

"I thought that date was for tomorrow," Hunk challenged, though now he sounded uncertain. Like he'd missed something. Maybe Lance hadn't told him he was going somewhere after work. That made him feel guilty. Especially as Hunk was moving around the kitchen, apparently putting together hot tea and buttering toast. I really don't deserve him, Lance thought to himself. "Or wait – was it for your English thing? That guy actually showed?" Really, really don't deserve him. How did he remember all this stuff?

"Yes, it was, and no, he didn't," Lance answered both questions, tucking one of his legs under him on the chair before remembering that it was still January, which meant that no matter how well the sidewalks were cleared, the bottom four inches of his pants were always going to be soaked. "But no one can ever say I didn't give him a chance."

"I wonder what's up with that?" Hunk mused, absently putting toast, eggs, and tea in front of Lance.

"Um, he's a lazy slacker?" Lance answered, not having thought much about the why of the absences and lack of communication. "He hates me? The universe has decided that in exchange for me having an awesome roommate I have to compensate by getting paired up with the worst of the worst for group projects?"

"That's sweet," Hunk dismissed the compliment. "But I don't know about him hating you. I mean, you've never actually talked to the guy, so how could he? What if something happened to him, you know? Like maybe he had a family emergency out of state? Like a funeral?"

"Or maybe it's January and the skiing is really good in Colorado," Lance shot back, not feeling particularly forgiving. Though the tea was helping.

"I'm just saying that you can't hate the guy before you know what happened," Hunk counseled, and Lance knew he was right but didn't want to say it. He rolled his eyes as he chewed.

"I don't even care what happened," Lance said callously. "I'm talking to the profe tomorrow to see if he'll let me do the write-up on you instead."

"Me?" Hunk asked, and Lance could tell he'd caught him off guard, but in a good way. Much like Lance's accent, Hunk didn't get near enough credit for his accomplishments.

"Yeah, you're endlessly fascinating and definitely more available. Would you mind?"

"I guess not," Hunk pretended to think about it, obviously pleased, though he was trying to hide it. "If you get permission."

"Thanks, man," Lance sighed, putting down his fork on his empty plate. "Maybe we can start with your transmitter? I'm not quite sure what you're doing with it?"

Hunk picked up the dishes and set them in the sink, shaking his head as he did so. "We'll get there," he acknowledged, smiling. "Later. Go on to bed before you fall asleep at the table."

"I really do want to know," Lance protested, wanting to put more conviction into his voice as he did so. Hunk ruffled his hair.

"And I want to tell you," he returned. "But only once, ok?"

"Ok," Lance gave in. "You need help with the dishes?" He felt so completely spoiled right now.

"Go to bed, Lance," Hunk commanded, knowing very well that Lance was an early to bed, first to get up sort of person. Lance thought a minute about pushing the issue a little more, but let it go. Hunk was right. After changing, brushing his teeth, and burrowing under the three blankets he kept on his bed, he was asleep in seconds.


	2. Startle Reflex

**Author's Note: So my husband just pointed out to me that most of my stories take place in January. To this, I can only say that I grew up in Illinois but now I live in a place where there is no such thing as winter, and I must miss it deep in my bones.**

**But hey, let's figure out what Keith has been up to that makes him unable to keep his appointments with Lance.**

Chapter Two: Startle Reflex

When Lance's phone alarm woke him the next morning, he was certain it was a mistake. He may be an early riser, but this was too dark even for him. He checked the time, then the weather, and realized what was going on. Chicago had been taken hostage by a change in wind direction. There would be snow later, probably a lot of it. And Lance had been in the city long enough that the idea of a fresh snowfall no longer charmed him. He pulled his topmost quilt off the bed, wrapping it around himself as he got up to look out the window, studying the gloom that seemed to be crawling out of Lake Michigan like a horror movie. The only thing separating him from the threatening shore was the two-mile span of the Museum of Science and Industry.

He pulled his warmest thermal sweater from his drawer and threw on his maroon college hoodie over it. Pidge had explained to him over and over that when it snowed it was actually warmer, but his tropical soul simply could not accept that. He remembered a particularly bright day last winter, the sun coming out after what seemed like months of darkness. Pidge caught him before he left, reprimanding him sharply as she layered him in a better hat and a scarf, telling him how many minutes he could be out before any exposed skin would be subject to frostbite. He had tried to protest, gesturing toward the bright sun. It couldn't be cold out with that much sun. She tilted her head, glaring at him for questioning her native judgment and experience, and knotted the scarf tighter than he felt necessary. He'd never felt so betrayed in his life as when he went to class and discovered that she'd been right. Still, even though he now knew the science, he dressed warm for bright days and even warmer for dark.

Breathing deep yoga breaths to transition himself into the morning, he neatly replaced the quilt on his bed and moved toward the kitchen to start the coffee, pausing in the hall to nudge the thermostat just a bit higher. Not too much, just a few degrees. Hunk grew up in Hawaii, so he also preferred the place an oasis in the snow just as well as Lance did, but they found out pretty quick into their stay at the apartment that if they wanted to avoid extra electric charges, they needed to stay below 74 degrees – preferably 70. It made them both feel victimized, misunderstood, and chilly.

Hunk surprised him by flopping down on the couch just as the coffee finished. They hardly ever saw each other in the mornings unless Hunk had stayed up all the previous night or something kept Lance home late enough. He had a notebook with him, an unusual sight before breakfast.

"Morning, sunshine," Lance greeted, smiling as Hunk yawned, still in his pajamas and looking rumpled.

"Where?" Hunk asked innocently, glancing around as if to make it clear that there was no sunshine, morning variety or otherwise. Lance patted his shoulder in solidarity as he handed over a brimming coffee mug.

"Sorry if I woke you," Lance apologized, leaning back against the counter with his own steaming cup.

"No, you didn't, I needed to see you before you go," Hunk replied, safely depositing his coffee to the floor and opening the notebook. "Looks like it's going to be pretty awful all weekend, so I'm going grocery shopping today instead of tomorrow. Do you need anything?"

"Mangoes," Lance responded immediately, not without a little bitterness, picturing the fully laden trees in his backyard. The shade of their leaves, the hum of the bees as they crowded around the dropped fruit, the taste of the warm sun.

"Frozen?" Hunk clarified, abruptly shaking him away from the memory. Lance didn't know if that meant that they both knew perfectly well there wouldn't be any mangoes so they'd have to make do with frozen ones or that if there might be some pale imitation of a mango available they would be frozen by the time Hunk got them home. But it gave him an idea.

"Yeah," he thought out loud. "Frozen mangoes and berries and smoothie stuff. Coconut milk."

"You know you're lying to yourself if you think blending an icy tropical smoothie is going to make it seem in any way close to warm here, right?" Hunk said skeptically while Lance hid his face in his mug. "But sure. Smoothie stuff. Anything else?"

"No, just the usual. Spinach, milk, whatever you get that turns into dinner every day because you are a culinary magician. More coffee. How bad is it supposed to snow?" He switched directions so fast that he suspected Hunk had written half his question as if he were still making a list. Lance grinned as Hunk scratched part of what he'd written out.

"Bad enough that Pidge wants to stay with us this weekend," Hunk said, once he'd processed the question. "The second subject I needed to ask you about."

"You know you don't have to ask about that," Lance returned, sensitive about their situation. He hadn't meant to become the dictator of the apartment when he'd taken over all the fees. "It's your place too. Pidge is welcome whenever."

"Yeah, I know, but are you bringing Allura home with you or anything?" Lance felt his brain tighten around the question, snapping to it with instant focus. He'd almost forgotten about that! It was Friday.

"Oh!" He said, watching as the liquid in his cup started to tremble. He hurriedly wrapped both hands around it, not sure if he were excited or terrified. "Yeah, that. No, we're not coming back here; we're meeting at the library. So she probably wouldn't want to. . not if it's snowing. But what if she does? Do you think she'd want to? What do I do if she wants to? Should I suggest it? Invite her to dinner or something? But then what if she cancels? What if the weather is too bad to meet after all? Should we reschedule?"

"Lance, chill," Hunk commanded, pressing a hand in midair as if lowering a valve. "How about this? I'll plan on yes, make enough food, and wait to put blankets on the couch until we know one way or the other. Deal?"

"But should I ask her, though?" Lance queried again, feeling even more out of his element. Like he'd made a mistake before he'd even done anything.

"Eh, do what feels right," Hunk advised, rather carelessly, which didn't help at all. Lance set down the last few sips of his coffee. He didn't feel like finishing it now.

"That's usually not the best idea," Lance muttered, retrieving his coat from the pile near the door.

"Don't worry so much," Hunk told him.

"Easy for you to say," Lance said, smiling through his nerves, buttoning his coat and his humor tightly in place. "Sitting there, God's gift to humanity, all of us hopelessly in love with you. Say, speaking of that . . . "

"Don't be late, Lance," Hunk shooed him away, bending over the notebook again. Lance knew he didn't mind it near as much as he pretended.

"Careful out there," Lance warned on his way out, serious again. "Let's not get into fistfights over the last quart of milk, right?" Because Hunk was not the only one making a list right now, Lance was certain. It would soon be in the news, if it wasn't already, that citizens should be getting prepared to be snowed in for the weekend. Which meant they would all be out at the stores, buying extra toilet paper, stripping the shelves of medication, bread, and bottled water. Lance started making a mental check list as he walked of what he should do when he got back from class. Make sure the flashlights had batteries, refill their emergency water supply. Figure out a spot on their balcony to put the stuff from the fridge in case the power went out. That was the one plus side of living here – the entire outdoors was a freezer so nothing would spoil.

Pidge thought he was crazy the first time he'd gone into disaster stashing mode, called him dramatic, told him that it was never as bad as the weathermen claimed it would be, but she was the first to show up when the storm started, and finally admitted Lance was pretty smart as they cuddled together in the dark, electricity-less apartment, eating egg rolls warmed with a camp stove. Hopefully, it wouldn't be that bad again. Lance glanced above him at the heavy clouds, wondering when it would start.

Until the first snowflakes did make their appearance, however, there was no reason not to go about business as usual. Which for a Friday meant English 101 first thing in the morning. To make up for Thursdays, Lance kept his Friday schedule light. Through some miracle, he had bundled what he called his "fluff" classes together for Friday, with long gaps between. Fluff meaning the classes the university required for everyone to take, to round out the academic experience – English 101, some kind of foreign language (Lance had tested out of all the Spanish courses until he was up to the last two offered, which were more about literature and phonetics than language), and physical education. Lance had chosen Ballroom Dancing for this requirement, noting to his friends how underutilized a dating resource it was. A room full of forty girls just waiting for you to ask for their hand and maybe twenty-five guys to be their partners. Truly a hidden gem for an eligible bachelor.

The only one that really bugged him, of course, was the English. Not just because of Keith, either. There was a lot he didn't like about it. First of all, it seemed completely irrelevant to his future goals. Second, he'd already learned to speak English, so the challenge of it was kind of already over for him. Everything at this point seemed superfluous. Third, the professor was one of those embittered, failed creative writers who liked nothing more than to take out his frustrations on his students. Once he'd come to class with a guitar and a harmonica in a holder around his neck. He sat on his desk, played both instruments at once, sang "Like a Rolling Stone" not so much out of key but in a painfully put on gravel-ish tone, told them all to "think about that" and marched angrily out of the room. The only thing Lance had thought about that was how it was all a ridiculous waste of his time and how he'd trudged all the way over to this room in the snow to witness what he thought could only be some sort of hippy mid-life crisis.

Professor Gibbon didn't have his guitar with him today, though. He did have a reminder about the biography due on Monday, and a discussion on the components to construct a decent cover letter. Lance sat up a little straighter. Cover letters could be important someday. This lecture may be beneficial to him. He took his notes and drafted a template, rather satisfied with the lesson, but not forgetting that he needed to do something about his assignment for Monday.

He had to hurry through the crowd of students shielding themselves into their winter stuff to catch his teacher after class, gaining a rather surprised look when he appeared at the front desk. Prof. Gibbon obviously wasn't used to student interaction, did his best to avoid it, but that didn't matter. Lance had to plead his case about the biography assignment. He kept it short and relatively free of whining.

"So how can I possibly write a biography on him if I can't even find him?" Lance finished his concrete argument. "The only way I feel I can complete this assignment is if I talk to my roommate instead."

"I don't have a problem with it," his teacher allowed, his words and his tone contradicting each other. "But you do realize Keith's sitting right behind you?"

"What?" Lance said, confused. Prof. Gibbon pointed to the back of the room where Keith sat with his notebook open, resting his head on his hand. Lance felt his jaw drop. "No, you're kidding." He hadn't come to class in over a week! When did he get here? Lance was certain he hadn't been that interested in cover letters. How had he missed him?

"It's up to you," Prof. Gibbon finished, gathering his coat and his bag, his emotional quota for this particular class evidently full. "But I would prefer you to interview your partner, if only because he needs to interview you as well." The way he talked, it made Lance feel as though he didn't believe that he'd tried to contact him at all, that he was just lazy and trying to weasel out of something. He wanted to rip his phone out of his pocket and show him the long line of failed meeting attempts, prove how many times he'd tried to do this, how often he had shifted his schedule around to make it happen. He had more than tried! But before he could get it out, his teacher was nodding at him and headed out the door. "Good luck," he said over his shoulder.

The last of the students were clearing out as Lance shifted direction to the back of the classroom. Keith didn't move, and Lance confirmed his suspicions about why as he came to a stop directly in front of him. He'd propped himself up expertly, but he was undeniably asleep, his notebook blank. Lance folded his arms around his book, drumming his fingers irritably against the spine, his jaw grinding though his lips were pursed tightly closed as he thought of what he wanted to say to this jerk who had just made him look like an idiot in front of the professor – the latest in a long inconsiderate list.

Their classroom was divided by three long tables, ten chairs lined up along each to accommodate the class, one of the smaller rooms. Keith sat at the end of the last one, farthest from the whiteboard at the front, closest to the door at the back. Where losers sit. People who come late only to fall asleep in class. People with no ambition. People who ghost their partners.

Lance looked down at Keith, hovering over him from the other side of the table, and couldn't remember a single thing Hunk had said about getting his side of the story for why he'd been missing. He could not gather together a scrap of sympathy for him in this moment, having just come from what felt like a rather accusatory conversation with their teacher about his effort – or lack of it. Though it was exceedingly rare for him, all he felt as he stood there watching Keith sleep was a fiery hatred. How dare he? Who had been paid off to allow him admittance to the university in the first place? This wasn't a community college, so how had he even been accepted? It had taken all Lance had to get here. How fair was that?

Without really thinking, Lance lifted his textbook high and then crashed it hard on the table right next to Keith's head. For one second, it felt deeply satisfying, the righteous pleasure of vengeance, but that moment was extremely short lived as Lance was suddenly introduced to the consequences of what he'd just done. Keith jerked awake, as expected, but instead of cowering or perhaps tripping backward on his chair like the statistical majority, he leaped to his feet and almost instantaneously threw a right hook that connected solidly against Lance's left cheekbone, hard enough to knock him to the floor, white splashing over his vision in a brilliant starburst that faded out in rainbow static. Lance immediately enacted the opposite end of the startle response spectrum, covering his head, turning away from the violence, tightening up as he waited for Keith to come kick him in the ribs for his little stunt. He blinked rapidly as his sight returned to normal, scrunching up that side of his face as he tried to figure out the damage by pain intensity alone. He'd never been punched in the head before.

"What the hell is your problem?" Keith growled, his voice raising all the hair at the back of Lance's neck, more so because it was so seething and quiet. He thought he'd feel better if Keith were screaming at him. The low volume made him sound incredibly dangerous. Lance really should have thought this through better. And still, even though he was now on his side, half lying in the disgusting puddles of mush that were tracked in by the students all winter long, wondering if his cheekbone were cracked, Lance was still furious even in his fear. He shoved himself to his feet, angry at himself for cowering, angry at Keith for making him do it. He'd never intentionally hurt any other living creature before, but today just might be the day to spoil his perfect record. He forced his hands into fists, an unnatural position for him. He did his best to stand as tall as possible.

"You," he spat, simply, cause and effect and rage all in one. You're my problem. You and people like you for as long as I can remember. I worked too hard to get here for you to blow me off so casually. It's not fair or right, and I'm not putting up with it anymore.

"I don't even know you!" Keith returned, defensive, breathing hard, still coming down from the fight response Lance had revved up in him. Seriously? Didn't know him? Unbelievable.

"Uh, the name's Lance," he lectured, surprisingly hurt more by these words than the punch. "We're partners? Supposed to be interviewing each other for Monday's assignment? You've been rescheduling on me for almost two weeks? Ringing any bells for you?"

As he spoke, harshly condescending, he gathered his courage to actually look Keith in the face, which washed him in immediate regret, all his fury evaporating. This wasn't him; he was supposed to be a healer. Ease suffering, not cause it. What had he done? He may have been the one to take a physical hit, but Keith was the one who looked beat up, awful really. He stood there tensed and coiled, fist drawn back, ready to deliver another blow, panting and surprisingly shaky. Lance relaxed, palms raising in surrender. He'd made such a mess of this with one careless moment. Why hadn't he taken a moment to think? Hunk had even warned him about it.

"At the bottom of my list, actually," Keith hissed, voice still low, on edge, not shifting at all even though Lance was standing down. Lance felt guilt grip him by the throat as he registered Keith's posture. His eyes. Lance knew both well, should have noticed a lot sooner, he had the training, and he felt compassion and shame swirl together nauseatingly in his stomach, not sure how to move forward from their standoff now that he'd ruined everything.

The first time Lance had tried his hand at healing, he had been eight years old. The patient had been a starving, sick feral dog he'd found in an alley, too weak to move but with enough fight remaining in it to bite Lance's arm as he picked it up. He still had the scar; the dog had clamped intermittent pressure into him all the walk home, snarling, tearing into the muscle. Lance had cried both from the pain in his arm and because the dog was hurting so much, feeling helpless that he couldn't make it understand that he was only trying to help. His parents were skeptical but believed in letting some lessons be learned the hard way, so they had allowed Lance to make a bed for the animal in the goat shed. It continued to snap at him, though he did his best to give it water, feed it by hand, talking gently and encouragingly to it. His mother had joined him to dress his wound and try to coax him into the house. He stubbornly wanted to sleep with the dog. She had given her permission after wiping his tear-streaked face clean with her apron. By morning, Lance's arm was swollen and throbbing, and the dog was dead.

His dad and elder brother had helped him bury it, taking several hours out of their busy lives to try and soothe Lance's little broken spirit with the ritual. However, Luis had questioned Lance's judgement, rather ungently, as he tore into the soil in the heat. He should have known better than to go near a feral dog, especially an injured one. It had been stupid. He had gotten exactly what he deserved. They were no good to anyone, so what if one died? Their father had rebuked him quietly, making him leave Lance alone – he was suffering enough already.

Lance heard what Luis said to him, but he couldn't make himself think that he'd done something stupid. He sat near them as they worked, holding the dog, his arm heavily bandaged. His brother didn't understand. The dog bit him because it was scared, because no one had ever been nice to it. And Luis didn't know, couldn't know, that during the night, it had crawled over to Lance, cuddled up against his side with the last of its strength. Because it hadn't wanted to die alone. So Lance couldn't believe what he'd done hadn't been the right thing to do. He might have been hurt, but it had been worth it. No one should suffer alone.

Lance felt tears sting his eyes as that memory filled him, standing there looking at Keith, seeing the similarities. He hadn't thought about that dog in such a long time, but there was something fierce, feral, and wounded in Keith's expression that brought it back, his lips curled, his body tight, trembling. Lance should have approached this differently. He didn't know how to save the situation now – at least not without one or both of them getting hurt.

"I'm sorry," he heard himself say, dropping his eyes and hands, submitting to Keith's dominance to help him feel safer, needing to turn this around so he could actually talk to Keith, ask him about where he'd been, figure out what was really going on, see if he could help him. "That was a jerk move, and I shouldn't have done it." He knew better. Such a stupid thing to do. He really wished he could take those moments back again, erase them.

"You think?" Keith snapped, but there wasn't much strength in his voice anymore either. Lance thought he knew why, but couldn't ask yet thanks to his own thoughtlessness, knew he couldn't get close enough to check. Keith still had his fists up and ready. Lance paused a moment to gingerly touch the back of his hand against his cheek, shocked at the temperature difference. His hand felt so cold on his face. His cheek felt swollen and hot against his hand. He winced unconsciously, wondering what kind of damage Keith could inflict if he had the time to think about it, glad he hadn't decided to hit him more than once.

"Can we start over?" Lance offered, hoping the textbook and the punch could cancel each other out. A point for each of them. New match, friendlier this time. "Truce?" He extended his hand, but Keith just eyed it suspiciously.

"Just stay the hell away from me," Keith told him, hotly, before turning away. Lance wilted, disappointed, then had to hurry and awkwardly catch his textbook when Keith flung it at him, discus-style, the corner gouging him in the chest.

"Ow, hey!" He said, more sad than anything. Keith ignored him, shakily bending to retrieve his backpack. He paused when he stood, his arm hanging loosely at his side, one hand clenched tightly around the straps, the other planted firmly on the table, his eyes closed. Lance felt his heart tighten up watching him. "Keith?" He began, taking a cautious step nearer.

At the sound of his name, Keith turned his head, opening his eyes just enough to glare at Lance, who was studying him intently now, concerned, his EMT training prodding at him. The wild dog was still in Keith's expression, suffering, angry, scared to death. Lance held out his hand soothingly without thinking about it. How bad was it? Was Keith at the beginning or the end? How could he get Keith to let him close enough to tell?

"Leave me alone," Keith commanded, slinging both backpack straps over one shoulder and hunching forward out of the room. Lance stood berating himself with his textbook in his hand, thinking maybe he should rush after him, despite what he'd just said. He should follow him, make sure he was all right. But then Lance blinked and even that tiny, unconscious motion hurt his wounded face, so he decided against it, letting Keith disappear down the hallway. Besides, even if he thought he could check on Keith without putting himself in physical danger, he didn't actually have the time right now. So he packed up his stuff, threw on his coat, and hurried back to his apartment to change for work. His shift was only two hours on Friday mornings, ending at lunchtime.

He paused just long enough to check himself over in the mirror, surprised at the reflection. His eye was fine, but there was already an impressive bruise splashed a little underneath it, running outward from the corner of his eye up toward his temple, his cheek visibly swollen. He grabbed a couple Ibuprofen and swallowed them with water he drank straight from the bathroom faucet, feeling stupid. It was his own fault. He wondered how he was going to explain it to . . oh, everyone who was going to see him in the next week or so. Like Allura! He groaned, hanging his head over the sink. What a way to start a date. Of all the days to act like a moron. He never did stuff like that, what had possessed him?

But it was already done, no way to change it now. He'd have to figure it out later. Why he did it; what he was going to say about it when he was inevitably asked. Except instead of thinking up a story on what he'd done to himself, he found he couldn't stop worrying about Keith, the expression on his face, the broken posture, sleeping at the desk, how Lance had been so cruel to him without ever giving him a chance. He replayed their confrontation over and over in his mind all the way to the donation center. He'd given up on the idea that Keith might have a legitimate reason for not meeting up with him. Because why not just say so if he did? And then to do what Lance had done when Keith was already . . . . Lance couldn't get over it. He was so shocked and disappointed with himself.

He ended up relying on what he did best regarding the startled questions he was peppered with all through his shift. It was strictly Emily Dickinson for him. Tell the truth but tell it slant. So that's what he did. To his boss. His coworkers. The few, but regular, donors who really needed the cash so they had braved the weather to come in. "Oh yeah," he jokingly responded to all queries. "That? Got it in a fight, but wow, you should see the other guy!" That mostly brought unconvinced guffaws and the matter was dropped. To the very few who were still concerned and pressed him on what _really_ happened, he poured on exaggerated sincerity. "But I did get in a fight. Dude got in the first hit, but only one." The words were true. The tone made it seem like a lie. It worked here at the center, where people only thought they knew him. He'd have a harder time later, when he went home. When he'd have to confess to Hunk not only how he got hurt but that he'd deserved it.

An email came in from his Spanish teacher, cancelling class that afternoon due to the weather forecast. It was still only threatening to snow, but the darkness had a weight to it now, the barometric pressure tangible in the air. He suggested the class use the time to review for the upcoming oral presentation – their choice of a poem or excerpt of Spanish literature. Lance wasn't too worried about it. He'd already memorized Segismundo's monologue from the play _La Vida es S__ueño_; a quick couple of recitations before class on Monday would do the trick for him. It meant that he suddenly had a completely open afternoon, a guilty conscience, and a growing need to check one more time on his English partner. It felt increasingly like a moral obligation the more he thought about it. He called Pidge before he left the donation center after his shift.

"Need some dating tips?" Pidge purred into the receiver before any kind of greeting.

"What?" Lance asked, caught off guard before remembering that Pidge was referencing his meeting with Allura later on that night. Why did he keep forgetting about that? Getting a date with her had been so high on his list of life goals that he found it distressing how he wasn't thinking about it at all and had to be reminded so often. "No, that's not for hours. I've got that covered." That was a complete lie, but he had something else taking his attention right then. Brains do not actually multi-task like people think they do. No matter what anybody says, a human brain can actually only focus on one thing at a time. Right this second, Lance was completely focused on Keith. Standing there with his hand on the table and his eyes closed.

"Suit yourself," Pidge told him, making him second guess the offer. Did he need dating tips? On the other hand, even if he did, could he trust taking them from Pidge? She was brilliant and everything, but Hunk had brought her over to the apartment several times before Lance had even noticed she was a girl. "So what do you need?" She asked, changing the subject, obviously wanting to move forward so she could get back to whatever she'd been working on when he called.

"I need an address," he said, favoring her wishes to get straight to the point, glad they weren't talking awkwardly about dating anymore. "Keith Kogane – he's a student here. Can you figure out where he lives?"

"Can I?" Pidge echoed, pretending to be offended.

"Will you?" Lance rephrased, but he didn't need to. He could hear her typing already. He hoped she wouldn't ask him what he wanted it for. He didn't have a good reason. Fortunately, Pidge wasn't in the mood to be nosy, though she'd probably demand an explanation later. He added it to the growing list. His cheek. Keith's address. His own poor judgment.

"Got him," she said triumphantly, though Lance had no idea how she'd done it. He never asked, wanting to live in a place of plausible deniability. "He's at Snell-Hitchcock, southwest building, room 110 on the first floor."

"You're amazing, Pidge, thanks; see you tonight."

"Behave yourself," she told him, hanging up. He knew she was just saying that to say it, that she had no real idea of who Keith was or why Lance was going to see him, but her comment still hit him rather hard. If he'd behaved himself earlier, this whole thing might not have been necessary.

Was it necessary, though? Lance asked himself this repeatedly on the walk over to the dorm. Maybe it was actually a bad idea. Keith had specifically told him to stay away. He was already sporting the consequences of getting on Keith's bad side on his face. He had a million other things he could be doing with his time right now. He had permission to do his biography on basically any other person in the world besides Keith. If he just kept walking, he could be snug in his apartment in no time at all, drinking _Koko Samoa_ with Hunk, waiting for the snow, finally hearing about the elusive and suddenly intriguing transmitter. It was so incredibly tempting.

But he couldn't. Keith's eyes wouldn't let him. The hand on the table. The vulnerable pause.

His fellow pre-med students sometimes mocked him about it, but Lance had a knack for medical observation. They said that Lance told you what you had and _then_ you came down with it, like he cursed people instead of diagnosed them. They teased him about the med bag too, but shockingly no one ever minded much when he showed up with it to take care of them.

He didn't have the bag now; it was sitting in a neat pocket on the floor between his dresser and his door. He kind of wished it were with him, though its weight was daunting to be schlepping it around everywhere he went. Still, there were few calamities he encountered in the world that couldn't benefit from something contained inside. Crying classmate? Here's a tissue. Forgot your lunch? Have a protein bar. Need an aspirin? Got you covered. Teabag? Sure. Batteries, of course. Extra pen? Ace wrap? Emergency blanket? Chocolate? Check, check, check and why would you ever leave home without that?

"What are you even doing here?" He asked himself, out loud, standing outside the dorm entrance. He'd almost summoned enough internal momentum to walk away, forget all about it, when a resident came out the door and politely held it open for him to go in.

"Thanks," Lance said, automatically, not sure if he meant it, stepping inside. He breathed deeply, down to the pit of his stomach, to calm himself down, still uncertain on what he was going to say. How would he even get Keith to trust him now? What if he wouldn't talk to him? What if he gave him a matching bruise on the other side? But maybe that was the answer. Maybe he needed to take the hit. A penance. A token of good will. God, he hoped not.

He paused again in front of room 110, in the dark of the winter hallway, conflicted. His nerves told him to just leave. His heart told him to knock. You don't owe this guy anything, his logic said. But he believed very strongly that no one should suffer alone. You don't even know that he is alone, Lance argued his own conscience. There's nothing that says he doesn't have a roommate just as cool as yours. Well, no, honestly, no one has a roommate as cool as Hunk, but he likely has friends. Maybe you're being arrogant in thinking you're the only person that can help him. Maybe you're completely delusional thinking he even needs help. Maybe you're just being selfish because you know you were mean on purpose and the guilt is making you see things that aren't even true. 

The memory of the dog came back to him again. Then the words in Paul Farmer's lecture that had focused and anchored his dream to ease pain in the world. Even if he were totally wrong about Keith, about what he thought he saw, he knew he wouldn't be able to get over it until he'd made sure. Until he'd apologized once more. He put his palm against his arm, where two layers of clothes down, the bite scar puckered his skin, then for the second time that day, he tightened his hand into a fist, this time to tap his knuckles against the door.

Quiet. No response. Maybe he wasn't home? But no, Lance was all amped up for this conversation now. If he had to summon his courage to come back later, he didn't think he could manage it. He knocked again, louder this time.

"Keith?" He called for good measure, not suspecting for one second that Pidge could have given him incorrect information; his faith in her stronger than in himself. "Are you in there?"

His hand moved from chest height to the doorknob, his fingers wrapping around the old brass. "Keith," he said again, amazed how he could want two very different things at the same time. He wanted Keith to answer him. He really hoped he wouldn't. The knob turned as he twisted his wrist, unlocked. That was a surprise. He wouldn't have put money on Keith being the kind of guy who left his door unlocked. He felt the latch give along with the resistance, the hinge ready to obey his next decision. If he wanted, he could pull backward and let himself in to Keith's dorm room. He took a moment to contemplate the consequences of that. It couldn't be considered breaking and entering if the door was unlocked, could it? And if Keith weren't in there, then he'd know in a matter of seconds and could leave immediately, no one the wiser for the intrusion. But if he were there? Was there a reason he wasn't answering? What kind? He needed to find out.

"Keith, I'm coming in," Lance warned before he talked himself out of it, tugging the door toward him and peeking timidly inside.

It was so tiny, so different from his own place, a cell rather than a room. There was a small window with a miniature desk beneath it straight across from the door. A stand-up dresser smashed against the wall on the left side of the room, and crowded on the right was a twin bed. With Keith just sitting up on top of it.

"Oh, hi," Lance stammered, surprised, worried about being responsible for waking Keith up twice in a day. "You are here."

Keith blinked at him, groggily. He was still wearing his coat and boots, as if he'd staggered through the door, tossed his backpack on the desk, and just collapsed into the bed. He looked terrible, worse than before. Lance suddenly didn't feel so dumb in making the decision to come check on him. It gave him some confidence.

"What are you doing here? Go away," Keith commanded, his voice rough, a wild dog snarling out a warning. Lance softly pulled the door closed, sealing them both inside, actually feeling a bit more secure now that he was standing here, now that he could very clearly see that he'd been right. The social aspect of this visit was obviously still delicate, but Lance had no intention of going anywhere now. He had a job to do. "I'm not doing the stupid assignment, got it?"

"That's not why I'm here," Lance told him, looking around. Not a single poster on the wall. Not a shred of personalization anywhere. The blanket on the bed could have been there from a previous tenant, or supplied by the residence hall. The desk was clear except for Keith's backpack. It looked like he'd just moved in but hadn't brought in all his stuff yet. Or like he was on his way out.

Lance brought his gaze back to Keith, who hadn't moved from the bed. Lance figured if he were going to attack him, he likely would have done it already. But he didn't look like he had the energy for something like that. He'd braced himself with one hand on the mattress, the first finger and thumb of his other hand straddling his forehead, pressing against his temples. Lance helped himself to the chair at the desk, turning it so he could sit down at Keith's level, the room so narrow that their knees almost touched.

"How long have you been sick?" Lance asked him, his tone gentle, professional, in his element now. Ready to check symptoms, assess treatment. It couldn't have been the entire length of the assignment. Unless, maybe, mono? That had a long duration, with lingering exhaustion and weakness. That would explain a lot.

Keith lifted his hand away from his eyes just enough to glare suspiciously at Lance, obviously perturbed that he hadn't obeyed his request to get out but not willing to expend the effort to force him to leave. Lance watched as Keith scanned him critically up and down.

"What are you? A nurse?" Keith said, not answering the question but not denying it either, taking in the scrubs he was still wearing, and Lance supposed the tone was meant to be taunting.

"Pre-med," he corrected quietly. "But I am a certified EMT."

Something slipped in Keith's expression as he said it, a tiny flash of innocence, not trust, but a glimmer that maybe he wanted to. It encouraged Lance into thinking that they might be able to move forward, past this morning. Both Keith's hands gripped the mattress now, and he looked suddenly much younger to Lance, sitting there with hunched shoulders and bowed head. Kind of helpless, shivery.

"I'd like to help," Lance offered. "If you'll let me. I'm really sorry about earlier, that was not cool. I don't even know why I did it."

"I do," Keith whispered; Lance barely caught it. He didn't know what he meant, so he let it go. He wanted to move on.

"Can I touch you?" Lance asked for permission, not wanting to make the same mistake twice, though he was already reaching out as he said it, assuming cooperation. The one-way flow of the conversation was starting to become clear to him. Keith wasn't going to answer questions; he was way too guarded. He didn't want anyone to see him prone or weak, so he certainly wouldn't be admitting it. Lance had worked with people like him before. Hell, his own sister Veronica was just like this. He wouldn't ask, but he wouldn't refuse either. So even though he didn't verbally respond, there was no resistance when Lance pulled his right hand away from where he clutched at the blanket.

"Checking your pulse," Lance explained as he turned Keith's wrist toward him, letting him rest his arm on Lance's legs. His skin was dry, extremely warm. Fevered. Lance settled his fingertips below Keith's thumb, counting as he looked at the clock on his phone. 105 beats per minute. Judging from Keith's physical appearance, Lance would guess his normal resting rate was closer to sixty. Elevated.

"Can you turn your face up a bit?" Lance asked, letting Keith's hand go, surprised when he left it on his leg. Keith looked doubtful, but after a moment's pause, he did as he was told, accepting Lance's authority even in his own room. Lance tried to rub his hands together for friction heat. "My hands are going to feel cold on your neck," Lance warned, but Keith still jumped at the contact. His temperature was so high that everything was going to seem cold to him right now. He shuddered under Lance's fingers. It only took a second to find Keith's lymph nodes, swollen and hard. God, the poor guy. Lance leaned back. "Last thing. Just follow my finger with your eyes, ok?" Again, Keith did as instructed, his eyes dragging, his reaction time slowed.

"Does your throat hurt?" Lance asked, narrowing down what he was seeing. Lack of throat pain would dismiss mono.

"It's like the only thing that doesn't," Keith confessed, shocking Lance. He hadn't been expecting him to answer like that. He'd been thinking he would have to drag every tiny bit of information out of him, one yes or no question at a time. He was either sick enough that his defenses were way down, or he was secretly relieved that Lance had forced himself into caring for him. Possibly both.

"I'm taking it you didn't get a flu shot this year?" Lance guessed, unconsciously picking up Keith's hand again since it was still in his lap, part of his natural bedside mannerism. Keith shook his head. Lance swallowed the lecture he had prepared for that. He'd already given it to both Hunk _and_ Pidge. And probably too many other people he'd looked after this winter who should know better. Fortunately, his own vaccination seemed to be holding up well.

Lance studied the room again, as if it could have been possible to miss something the first time. No bathroom in here. No sink. Snell-Hitchcock was one of those dormitories where all those things were communal. One huge bathroom per floor. One community kitchen. The worst place ever for a flu patient – both for his recovery and for likely spreading the contagion to the entire complex.

"Do you have anybody who can come stay with you?" Lance asked, holding Keith's hand in both of his now, feeling him tremble, chilled. He was going to need rest, fluids, possibly a steadying hand to guide him to and from a bathroom. Things that Lance might have felt comfortable in him doing for himself if he had lived in a different residence hall where all that stuff was in one space. Keith stared at the floor, his hand limp in Lance's, his shoulders twitching.

"Keith?" Lance tried again. "Is there someone you can call to come help you for a few days?"

The pause after the question went on so long that Lance got worried. How high was this fever? He really wished he had his med bag, the old-fashioned, reliable mercury thermometer would be so helpful right now.

"Keith," Lance called him, going to his knees on the floor so he could look up into his face. There were tears in his eyes; his mouth a tight bloodless line. No wonder he hadn't wanted to look up or speak. He had no one. He really was alone. Lance stared at the empty wall above the bed, the depressing atmosphere of the place. Lance stood up, putting a comforting hand on the back of Keith's neck – which made Keith gasp at the cold and Lance wince at the heat.

And suddenly, Lance no longer cared exactly why Keith had decided to keep skipping their appointments. Right now, he was alone and suffering; the two things that Lance absolutely could not tolerate.

"All right," Lance said, making a decision. "Help me pack some stuff. You're coming home with me."

**Author's Note: Ok, so we don't find out what Keith's been up to, but it's coming soon. Ah, Keith, so secretive. But good job, Lance, on partially taming your wild wolf here. Sorry about your pretty face. Keith's sorry too . . . but he won't tell you that.**


	3. In Case of Emergency

**Author's Note: Once upon a time, there lived a little boy who grew up to be the man I fell in love with. I've based almost all of Keith's medical history on him. Though I am nothing like Lance, so we struggled a heck of a lot more. There's a lot of med stuff in this chapter because I LOVE IT. I hope you enjoy it too.**

Chapter Three: In Case of Emergency

"What?" Keith said, bewildered, quiet, not quite keeping up with what Lance had just suggested. It had been rather sudden; Lance had sort of surprised himself, but now he was committed. Lance gently pushed Keith sideways onto his bed so he could lie down while Lance began to assemble his stuff, taking control.

"You shouldn't stay here by yourself," Lance pointed out simply, horrified and amazed that he could stand at the center of the bedroom and almost touch the walls on each side without moving. "We'll both be more comfortable at my place." The rightness of the decision put him into motion. He started pulling open Keith's dresser drawers, searching for pajamas.

"Hey, wait," Keith protested, propped up on the bed, still shivering. "I can't go home with you."

"I'll give you ten seconds to give me a good reason why not," Lance contested, not turning around, coming to a realization that all of Keith's belongings could fit quite easily into the one duffle bag he'd located in the bottom drawer of the dresser. Who was this guy? If only they had been able to complete the biography assignment so Lance would know at least a little bit about him, because in the last few hours, Keith had become an almost irresistible mystery. Where did he come from? How'd he get to the University? Where was the rest of his stuff? Was this really all his stuff? Since his illness was new, Lance guessed his symptoms probably started either this morning or last night, where had he been for the last couple weeks? And probably most important of all – what happened to him? What sort of life had left Keith alone in this room with no friends and so defensive? Because punching is not a natural startle reflex. Humans aren't born that way; they train it into themselves either through militant or traumatic repetition.

"I don't even know you," Keith repeated what he'd said to him this morning. Lance paused in his rummaging through the drawers to whip out his wallet, plucking out his ID, his CPR certification, and his volunteer EMT card and handing them to Keith for inspection.

"My qualifications," he countered, trying to keep something like humility in his voice. "And if that's not good enough, I can also get you a copy of my CV and we can phone in some testimonials if you need them." Keith stared at the cards, his mouth open. Lance couldn't tell if he was impressed or if he were thinking that Lance might be a little too serious about life. He'd received both responses and they looked almost exactly the same.

"But . . . aren't I contagious?" Keith asked, looking truly pitiful, almost desperate. "You could get sick too if I go with you."

Lance smiled, bending down to take back his cards. "Nice try," he complimented. "But I did get a flu shot, and I've already taken care of like five other people this winter, including my roommate, who went through this. So far so good. I think we're all going to coast through on temporary immunity. I wouldn't say the same for all the poor souls who share the first-floor bathroom with you if you stay here, though. Coming with me might actually help in not spreading this around. _And_ if you stay at my apartment, you won't have to see any of your neighbors and have them ask you why you look like a plague victim. I'd consider that a plus. What else you got?"

"You're crazy," Keith told him. Lance allowed him this opinion, he wasn't the first to have it, but it certainly didn't qualify as a good reason.

"Yeah, well, I did get punched in the face this morning. Could be blunt force head trauma," he answered flippantly, then wished he hadn't been quite so casual when he saw Keith's eyes flicker to the bruise on his cheek, his expression crumpling into shame. Then into something like horror. It bothered Lance enough that he stopped moving around the room, coming to the bedside, kneeling beside it so Keith wouldn't have to look up at him.

"Look, I get it," Lance comforted, turning serious. "I know what I'm asking you to do, and I know it's hard. You don't know me; you're right. I was a jerk to you this morning. But I am sorry for that, and I am good at this. I understand you don't need me to, that you'd probably make it through all right if you stayed here by yourself, but I also know that this year's virus is a bitch, you're just getting started into how bad it's going to be, and it's going to be a white-out this weekend. Please, come with me. Let me help you."

"How long?" Keith asked instead of trying to list another reason, though he still sounded more than a little worried. Hesitant. His voice breathless from the strain of keeping himself upright on his elbow.

"Until you're better," Lance answered, casual, not giving an estimate as to how long it would take. It always varied person to person. Hunk was only down a couple days; Pidge almost a solid week. He didn't know Keith, hadn't really even examined him yet. "However long that takes," he finished, then stood to pack the rest of Keith's clothes and hygiene articles, knowing that he'd won the exchange, that Keith had submitted to his plan. He still wasn't sure it was a good idea, but Lance knew he'd do it. He turned his attention to the backpack on the desk, the dresser drawers completely empty. Keith wouldn't be up for doing homework this weekend, but his wallet was possibly in there, his keys, his phone. Lance had only just started unzipping it when Keith unexpectedly freaked out behind him.

"Don't!" Keith barked, jerking all the way up, trying to lurch over to grab his backpack out of Lance's hands. "Don't open that!" The strong reaction triggered immediate obedience in Lance. What on earth? This wasn't a half-hearted effort to protest going with him. This was genuine fear. He dropped the bag, lifting his hands to show that he was no longer touching it. But he was instantly curious, a little apprehensive. What was in there that Keith didn't want him to see? Lance turned to him, monitoring his mottled complexion, both pale and flushed at once, his panting, the look of terror in his face. What kind of guy cared more about hiding what was in his backpack than what was in his underwear drawer? Despite the intrigue, concern won out. Lance wanted Keith to trust him, and he didn't want to cause him unnecessary discomfort (though it might be too late for that), so he snagged the straps of the bag and brought it over to the bed, still securely closed.

"Sorry," he said, calmly, steady, wanting to ease the tension in Keith. They were precariously balanced in their relationship. It could still go either way. "I was going to pack your phone and ID and thought they'd be in there," he explained what he'd been doing. Transparency was always good when building rapport. Lance twisted to grab the half-full duffle bag off the floor, setting it gently on the chair where he'd been sitting. "But I'll let you do that part."

Keith nodded, his jaw tight, coming down hard from what that little episode had done to him. Very hard. Lance could see his hands shaking as he pulled the backpack onto his lap, saw him struggle with his fine motor control to get a grip on the tab for the zipper. Filled with compassion and a little guilt, Lance sat beside him on the bed, resting a hand against his back.

"Or we could just take the whole thing," Lance suggested softly, since he couldn't help with the zipper and he couldn't take watching Keith try anymore. Keith spread his hands over the still-closed backpack, and Lance felt him relax under his hand.

"Ok," Keith agreed, weakly, allowing Lance to take the bag again, efficiently tucking it into the duffle and zipping it out of sight.

"There, all set. Now, you should rest a little," Lance commanded, shifting to make room for him to lie down again, slowing his voice to encourage the same reaction of Keith's circulatory and respiratory systems, both of which were still racing. "Breathe deep and get your heart rate down while I get us a ride."

Keith curled up on his side on the bed, spent, arms and knees tight to his torso, staring at Lance who perched on the edge next to him. The hint-glimmer of trust was still there, but more than half-drowned in suspicion and pain. He looked so miserable, and Lance knew it was going to get worse.

"You poor bastard," Lance whispered, unthinkingly reaching over to brush Keith's hair away from his face, comfortable touching strangers thanks to his training and job. Keith stayed still under his fingers, but Lance could feel how stiff he was, how tense. Not used to being touched, or at least not gently. "It's gonna be ok," Lance reassured. "I'm going to take care of you." He watched Keith's eyes mist over to the point where he was forced to close them and bury his face into his pillow, embarrassed and uncomfortable. Knowing his entire body ached, Lance squeezed Keith's shoulder very carefully before getting up, giving him some space to collect himself and pulling his phone out again in order to call Hunk. Even though it was a straight shot down 57th Avenue to his apartment, it was way too far for Keith to walk. Especially in the snow.

"Lance, hey, what's up?" Hunk answered. Lance took a couple steps away from Keith, turning his back, looking out the solitary window. The snowfall had officially started, though it wasn't too serious yet, the flakes still big and fluffy. "I was just going to call you."

"Hunk, where are you?" Lance asked. He hadn't meant to start with that, but he could tell from the weird echo on Hunk's side that he wasn't at home. He was somewhere with a much higher ceiling, no carpet. The buzz of several other people in the background.

"The Geo building," Hunk replied, a pleasant surprise. Lance tilted his head a little to shift his view out Keith's window, discovering that it was indeed possible to see the Geo building from where he stood. "We're putting a kit together and then heading over to the Museum. Looks like conditions could be perfect for thundersnow tonight."

"Wait a second," Lance said, bracing himself against the wall with one hand. What the hell was thundersnow? It sounded like a Magic the Gathering card attack. "Back up. Who's we? I thought we were barricading ourselves in the apartment tonight."

"Yeah, we were, but then some of Pidge's geoscience friends were telling her about the study going on at the Museum tonight on the weather, and it sounded pretty cool, so we're here with them packing up some measuring stuff and barometric scanners and then we're going to order pizza and watch the storm from the observation deck on the museum roof. It's going to be awesome! Did you want to come?"

"You sure you want to do that?" Lance checked, rather overwhelmed by the drastic change in plans. Plus, it sounded sort of ominous. If there was thunder, that meant lightning first, right? In a blizzard. Somehow, it didn't seem so smart to watch that kind of thing surrounded by electronics under a glass ceiling on a roof right next to a huge body of water. "I mean, that's not really physics, is it?"

"Everything is physics, Lance," Pidge told him, cluing him in that he was actually on speakerphone. "Earth, space, weather, electricity, your tendency to worry too much."

"Ok, Doctor Who," Lance shot back, not really liking the whole idea and coming off hostile.

"Yes, and time, also physics, well done," Pidge retorted, ignoring his tone. "So are you coming? Bring your date; it'll be fun!"

"No, I can't," Lance denied, his insides tangling up as he remembered, again, that he had a date tonight. He checked the time. Not quite two in the afternoon. He had plenty of time to get Keith set up and comfortable at the apartment before seven. "I was actually calling because I need a ride."

"What's going on?" Hunk's voice clear on the line again, and Lance smiled because he wasn't the only one who maybe worried too much.

"Looks like I'm breaking a fever tonight," he responded, which was a surprisingly common activity for him. He was getting a bit of a reputation, actually.

"Whose? Yours? You ok?" Hunk's questions toppled over each other. Ever since his own battle with the flu a little while ago which consequently led to Pidge catching it after him, Hunk was more than a little sensitive about Lance coming down with it too. Lance didn't blame him; Pidge had scared the shit out of both of them. She'd been so very un-Pidge-like – staring into space, sobbing at any little thing, clingy. She writhed in her sleep, moaning in such a terrible way that it made Hunk pace incessantly, asking Lance over and over if there was anything else they could do for her. The only way they'd found to keep her comfortable was having Hunk cradle her like an infant on the couch while Lance played the original Legend of Zelda for almost thirteen hours straight. The whole thing had bothered them all so much that they didn't talk about it and Lance had taken the Zelda game and hidden it in the residence hall study room.

"I'm fine, Hunk," Lance reassured. "It's Keith – my English partner? He's not doing so well. I'm here with him at Snell, but it's one of those rooms that has nothing but a bed in it so I talked him into coming over to our place. It's too far for him to walk, though."

"Oh, you found him," Hunk expressed an odd mixture of sympathy and relief. "Poor guy, but at least now you know what's been going on there. Told you he probably had something. Wait, Snell-Hitchcock? Isn't that like right across the street?"

"Yeah; I'm looking at the Geo building right now," Lance said, deciding not to tell Hunk that Keith's illness could maybe explain where he'd been last night but not the previous weeks. "I can get him out onto Ellis, I think. Is that ok?"

"Yeah, sure, of course. Give me maybe ten minutes? Can he make it to the corner of Ellis and 57th?"

Lance glanced over his shoulder at Keith, almost dropping the phone to discover him awake and staring at him. His expression was hard, hurt, a little scary. He looked like a wolf more than a dog now, his eyes bright enough Lance couldn't really tell what color they were, intense.

"I think so," Lance said, trying to keep his voice steady, making an effort to maintain eye contact with Keith. Really, how high was this fever? Lance was looking forward to getting Keith to a place where he could find out, start a chart, start doing something helpful. "I'll call you if we can't and we'll figure something else out."

"All right, see you in a few," Hunk solidified the plan. "Hey Pidge –" Lance heard him say as he hung up, and he knew that she was having the whole thing explained to her now. He tucked his phone into his pocket, mentally preparing himself for the tricky and uncomfortable business of getting Keith from here to there. He'd walked himself home from English class, but that had been hours ago, probably before he'd even realized he wasn't feeling well.

"Ok, Lobito," Lance began, attempting to keep his voice light, like this was no big deal and wouldn't be all that hard, like what he'd just seen in Keith's face hadn't scared him a little. He wondered if he could hear him, though. Keith's eyes were heavy. Lance had never seen anyone stare the way Keith did. "We're meeting my roommate on the corner so he can drive us." As he spoke, he closed the distance between them, taking Keith's wrist so he could check his pulse again. Still racing. The sooner they got him settled the better. Lance used his grip on Keith to help pull him to a sitting position, moving slowly to allow his impaired system time to recalibrate his equilibrium. 

"Are you sure this is ok?" Keith muttered, the softness of his voice in no way matching the fierceness of his gaze. "Your roommate doesn't mind?"

"Hunk? No, he's the best; you'll see."

"It sounded like an argument," Keith pointed out, and Lance was surprised he had paid that much attention, even though he'd misunderstood.

"Not about you," he answered gently. "Trust me; they're cool with it."

"They?" Keith checked, sounding confused, and Lance realized that he hadn't mentioned Pidge yet. She and Hunk were together so much that they seemed like one entity to Lance at this point, and he sometimes forgot that she didn't actually live with them.

"Hunk's friend, Pidge, will be with us this weekend too," he explained. "Which is good; they're fun to watch. I can only understand about thirty percent of what they say, but when they go at it, it's better than anything on cable."

Keith looked unsure still, especially now that there would be more people than he thought involved. Lance had seen this expression before. He was thinking he'd made a mistake in agreeing to this. It was one thing to almost trust Lance, but to extend something so fragile to people he hadn't seen yet was asking too much.

"They're my best friends," Lance assured, without reservation. "There's nothing to worry about. So let's get going before the storm gets bad. Can you stand up?"

He could, but it was an obvious effort. Lance thought he heard him mumble, "I can't believe I'm doing this," under his breath, but it wasn't clear and Lance didn't ask or really give him any time to change his mind. Instead he slipped the duffle bag strap over his head, guided Keith into the hallway, and locked the door to his empty room behind them.

"What's the shortest route to Ellis and 57th?" Lance asked, knowing he could figure it out if he were outside, but he wanted to keep them in the warmth of the residence hall as long as possible. Keith glanced around as if he wasn't too sure about it either, but oriented himself enough after a couple seconds that he could point. Lance took Keith's elbow to aid his balance when walking, but it seemed that now they were out in the open, outside the tiny room, that Keith didn't want to be touched anymore. Not where they could be seen.

"I can walk," he said, a little gruffly, pulling away, and Lance caught himself before he rolled his eyes. Working around bravado was so inefficient, but since it had been a triumph to get Keith up and out of the apartment in the first place, he was going to let it go.

"Then lead the way," Lance invited indulgently, letting his hand drop to his side but keeping careful watch. Keith seemed the sort of person who would push himself too far for pride's sake, and it was easier to keep someone upright than picking them up again after a fall. Though it appeared Keith wasn't lying; he could walk. Like a drunk, but at least they weren't going very far.

"Almost there," Lance encouraged, reminding himself every few steps that even though Keith was hunched over like an eighty-year-old man, he was still technically walking so he should keep his hands off. He didn't know if it were true or not, if they were almost anywhere, but it felt weird to watch Keith without doing anything to help, even if it was just verbal reassurance. Still, it couldn't be long now. Then he could get Keith into some more comfortable clothes and under a blanket, take his temperature properly and see if he could be persuaded to eat anything. They moved through the dormitory slowly, Keith out of breath and Lance watching him, putting together his to-do list for how best to take care of him. He was paying so much attention to his future preparations that it startled and worried him when Keith stopped for what seemed like no reason at all.

"What's up?" Lance asked, tensing, ready to catch Keith if he needed it, growing confused when Keith gestured ahead of them.

"Is that your roommate?" He said, and Lance turned his head toward the glass exit door, smiling broad enough that it hurt his cheek as he recognized Hunk on the other side, standing there waiting in his enormous Carhartt coat and fur-lined Canadian trapper hat. He'd cupped his hands against the door, practically had his face squashed against it as he did his best to see in against the glare of the weak winter sunlight, unable to let himself in without a resident's keycard.

"The absolute best," Lance confirmed, feeling a mix of pride and affection as Hunk recognized them and started waving with both hands, as if they couldn't see him standing there. Keith started moving again, slowly, but Lance went on ahead to open the door for Hunk, meeting with more resistance than he expected as he tried to shove it against the wind.

"Hey Hunk," he greeted. "Thanks for coming."

"No sweat," he responded, nonplussed and used to it. "Glad Pidge told me the right door." But then he paused, mittened hand shooting out to catch Lance by the chin. "Dude, what happened to your face?" Lance twisted away both because Hunk's hand was freezing and because now was not the time for that discussion.

"Let's help Keith first," Lance delayed, shifting Hunk's attention back to the point of his bringing the car over here. Hunk looked like he wanted to press him, but by this time Keith had joined them at the door, surprising Lance by reaching out to hold onto his coat sleeve. Lance looked imploringly at Hunk, hoping it was as obvious to him as it was to Lance that Keith was in bad shape and they shouldn't waste any time.

"Right," Hunk agreed, eyeing Keith pityingly, automatically moving to his other side to sandwich him in support. "Come on; I left the car running for you."

Two steps out into the cold, Keith's body folded on him. Not a collapse, just an automatic tightening response to the drastic change in temperature. Lance heard him swear in a hiss of discomfort, his eyes squeezing shut, all his limbs pulling in to his core. It made sense. Lance felt his own muscles doing kind of the same thing, just on a much less debilitating scale. It was freezing out here in the wind. Hunk was the least affected since he'd been out more recently and for longer. He enclosed Keith in his broad arms, half carrying him to the car.

"We got you," Hunk told him, tucking him into the backseat. Lance put a grateful hand on his back as he came up behind him, and they shared a quick glance before Lance ducked inside next to Keith. Hunk looked a little worried, wincing as he noticed Lance's bruise again, but shrugging it off and making his way around to the driver's side door.

"Halfway there," Lance noted, trying to be cheerful as he tucked his long legs into Hunk's Civic and pulled the door shut. But he doubted Keith could see anything positive in his situation at present. He was curled up against the back of the seat, arms around himself, shivering rather violently, clenching his teeth to try and keep them from chattering.

"You guys ok back there?" Hunk asked, watching them in the rear view mirror, his expression tight, like he felt he should be doing something but he didn't know what.

"We just need to get there, Hunk," Lance instructed, not looking forward to getting out of the car again. "Sorry, Lobito," he apologized to Keith, who squinted at him, unfamiliar with his new nickname. "Geeze, come here." Without asking, he pulled Keith down onto his lap, folding over him to try and stop the chills rippling all throughout his body. Hunk pulled the Civic carefully onto 57th for the quick mile-long drive to Stony Island. "It's close," Lance promised, rubbing a hand up and down Keith's arm as he shuddered against him. "And when we get there, we'll get you set up in some PJs and under a blanket and you won't have to go outside again." Keith couldn't answer, but he didn't try to move away.

"So, Lance, what did you do to your face?" Hunk asked again as he drove, not willing to let that go. Lance felt Keith flinch.

"Something stupid," he told the truth . . .slant again.

"It looks like someone clocked you, man."

"Really?" Lance spoke up quickly, not liking the effect this conversation was having on Keith. He didn't think it was possible for him to tighten up anymore. It was making the shaking worse. "Like a fight? Honest? Does it look cool? Do you think I can run with that? That I got in a fight?"

"You?" Hunk scoffed, exactly as Lance had intended. "Probably not. What'd you really do? Run into a door? Slip on the ice or something?"

"It wasn't my most graceful moment," Lance sort of confessed without actually revealing anything.

"I keep telling you – walk like a duck. And slow down! I know you think you're late to everything, but you seriously aren't. Be more careful." Hunk gave him the lecture, but Lance could tell that he still wasn't sure about the explanation, or rather the lack of explanation regarding his injury. He would tell him, he promised himself. Just not right now.

"I will, Hunk."

Keith twisted a little so he could look up at Lance, who stared back, his mouth tightly closed, hoping Keith was with it enough to read his expression. Keep quiet. Lance thought he detected slightly more trust in Keith's eyes, wonder, surprise. He continued rubbing his arm, sighing.

The trip from the car to the apartment wasn't any easier. Keith's muscles were so frozen that it took both Hunk and Lance to guide him, leaving the car illegally parked as close to the door as possible with the hazard lights on. By the time they got him into the elevator, up to the third floor, and into their room he was moving slightly better, but the trip had taken a lot out of him. They eased him onto the couch, letting him recover for a minute.

"I gotta jet," Hunk excused himself. "Can't leave the car there." Lance turned toward him, keeping one hand on Keith's shoulder.

"Thanks, Hunk," he said again.

"No problem. Listen to Lance and feel better, buddy," Hunk called over to Keith. "See you tonight," Hunk said to Lance. "Not sure when, though."

"I still think you should skip that," Lance tried one last time. "Have you seen the sky? The lake? The twin vortexes of doom?" Hunk rested his hand on top of Lance's head, patting him as if he were a child.

"That is exactly the point," Hunk affirmed, not moved in the least, actually sounding excited. "Relax. It's not like we'll be far away. Besides, you're going to be so busy you won't even miss us. Dinner's over there for you." He pointed to the counter where his trusty crockpot was quietly simmering away. "Don't touch it until six." Hunk started backing up. "Good luck on your date. Oh and hey, Physician," he said the last thing from behind the door he'd started closing. "Don't forget – heal thyself!" Lance waved him off, regretting that Pidge had ever taught him that expression. He wasn't ignoring his face, exactly, it's just that there wasn't really anything he could do for it that he hadn't already.

Hunk's steps faded down the hallway, back toward the elevator, and Lance took a deep breath, placing his coat on the camp chair, ready to focus all his attention. Keith was staring again, tired and questioning.

"How are you feeling?" Lance asked, wanting to ruffle his hair. Instead, he knelt down to undo the laces of his boots. Keith's hands joined his, pushing him away, not willing to let Lance take his shoes off for him.

"Like I just got kidnapped by the Hallmark Channel," Keith answered, voice still rather weak and breathless, but snark was usually a good sign that things weren't too bad. Patients who kept their sense of humor normally recovered faster. On the other hand, patients who didn't answer questions properly were harder to treat.

"Get out of your coat and get comfy," Lance said instead of acknowledging the joke, setting the boots to the side of the couch so they wouldn't be tripped over. It was more a compliment to him, really. A testament that his apartment was just as homey to other people as it was to him. "I'll be right back with my stuff." He left Keith on the couch to retrieve his med bag, pausing just briefly to look out his bedroom window at the Museum, at the gathering intensity of the storm. Rainstorms didn't bother him. In fact, they were one of his favorite things about nature, but frozen water falling from the sky was different. It seemed more menacing somehow.

He hadn't been gone but a minute, but when he returned to the living room, Keith had wriggled out of his coat, draping it over the arm of the couch, and was now resting his head on it, eyes closed, feet still on the floor, slumped over rather awkwardly. Lance pulled out his notebook. Time to get some stats. He started with Keith's name and the date at the top of the first blank page.

"All right, Lobito," he called, letting Keith know he was back. Keith pushed himself up, but not all the way.

"Why do you keep calling me that? What's it mean?" He asked, but Lance just smiled.

"It's what I do. You think Hunk and Pidge are real names?" Keith's brow furrowed, as if he hadn't thought about it before. "I'll stop if it bothers you." He received a slight head shake in response. "Here, tuck this under your tongue for me."

He checked Keith's pulse and eyes again, his blood pressure and oxygen level, noting everything down in his notebook while Keith watched him quietly, his face balanced somewhere between overwhelmed and impressed.

"102.7," Lance repeated aloud as he wrote the temperature down, doing his best not to sound too worried. At her worst, Pidge hit 102.9, but Keith was a long way from that point still. "Is that typical for you? Do you always run high fevers like this?" 

"I should know the answer to that, shouldn't I?"

"Maybe not, but let's get serious for a minute," Lance said, sitting beside Keith on the couch, facing him directly. "I don't want to scare you, but I know for a fact that when the sun goes down, fevers go up. You're already plenty high, so I need some information just in case. Do you have any allergies to medicine or anything else?"

"No," Keith answered, looking concerned.

"When was the last time you took any medicine, or had anything to eat or drink?" Lance hated asking these questions; he tried to skip them when he could. But it was easiest to get answers right now, before there was an emergency. If there was going to be an emergency.

"I. . don't know. I didn't take anything. I had coffee this morning?" Lance felt like he needed to hold Keith's hand again. He wasn't even asking anything hard yet, but it looked like Keith was scared to death.

"And food?" He prompted. "When was the last time you ate anything?" Why can't you remember?

"Last night," Keith seemed semi-sure about the answer. "Six maybe? A sandwich from Subway. It was gross." Lance couldn't help it this time; he reached over to squeeze Keith's hand.

"Relax," he comforted. "You're not on trial or anything." Keith winced, his hand clenching, almost a spasm; Lance frowned at him. What made him do that? "I'm just getting a picture here to see what's in store for us tonight. Is there anything you can tell me about your medical history? Do you know if you hallucinate? Are you prone to seizures? Is there anything you can remember working for you to help you feel better?"

"We read that I had a seizure once," Keith said, sounding young again, this memory obviously very old for him. What did that mean? He read? With who? Didn't anyone take care of him when he was sick? Maybe he just never got sick?

"Ok," Lance encouraged, wondering if he might have gotten into something above his skill level. He'd never seen a seizure before, but if Keith's temperature went up any more and he had a history, then tonight might be the night. "How long ago? What happened?"

"I was two," Keith said, shrugging slightly. "I don't remember. It came up when we were registering for school." Two. Ok.

"Was it a febrile seizure?" Lance asked, trying to help him. Not too uncommon for very young children, but a condition that could follow him into adulthood.

"That sounds right? The notes said I wasn't breathing when my dad brought me to the hospital. That he had blood on his shoulder. Is . . .is that what you're asking for?" Now that wasn't typical. Unless.

"That's exactly what I'm asking for. Can I look at your back a second?" Lance asked, straightening, ignoring Keith's look of confusion. It was kind of becoming permanent, that bewildered look, but it didn't hinder his cooperation. He scooted forward while Lance leaned over him, pulling up his shirt, careful not to let his bare hands touch the over-heated skin. Yes, there it was. At the base of Keith's spine, a lumbar puncture scar. Two of them, actually. "Did you read anything about meningitis?"

"No," Keith said slowly, processing the word. "What are you looking at?"

"Someone took a sample of your spinal fluid," Lance explained. "There's still a scar here that you probably never knew about. They were testing you for meningitis. But ok – you didn't have it, and that's the only seizure you remember . . . well, that anyone told you about?"

"Yeah," Keith confirmed, still looking scared. The exact thing that Lance hadn't wanted. But he hadn't known then that Keith's answers to his mundane questions would be so scary. If he hadn't been diagnosed with meningitis, then what was up with the blood? The not breathing? And he couldn't tell him anything else about what he was like when he was sick. Lance considered him carefully, sitting there all wretched and frightened. He felt conflicted. When he thought up the idea to bring Keith here, he'd just thought he would be making sure he drank enough to keep himself from getting dehydrated, that he'd have some company and comfort. He didn't think he'd be monitoring him for anything intense. He'd even planned on leaving him alone to sleep for a few hours while he went to his afternoon class and later on his date at the library.

Now it was very clear that he wasn't going to go to either.

"Why do you look like that?" Keith asked him, and he smiled in spite of his thoughts. Stress wasn't helping Keith at all.

"Just thinking," he explained. "We should be ok. Thanks for going over that with me. I know it kind of sucks, but it'll help me in the long run." Keith sagged against the back of the couch, seemingly unable to hold his head up anymore, looking partially relieved. Time to let him rest, and hopefully his illness would progress peacefully.

"It'll also help me if you let me know how you're doing," Lance said. "If something changes, ok? I know you're the kind of person who hates talking about that kind of thing, but even skilled as I am, I can't tell everything just from looking at you. Can you do that for me?"

Keith shrugged, which Lance translated as agreement.

"One more thing and then I'll let you sleep, I swear," Lance said, hating that he had to ask this, but he really thought he needed to ask after what he'd just learned. "It's overkill, but you've probably gathered by now that's my calling card. But just in case, where is your ID and who do I call in case there is an emergency? Your dad?"

Keith maintained eye contact with Lance as he pulled his wallet from his coat pocket, showing it to him and replacing it. Good. One down. And Lance wouldn't have to rummage in the forbidden backpack for it.

"Now how do I get in touch with your parents?" Lance repeated.

"You can't," Keith answered, and Lance could tell that he really didn't like saying this out loud. He was sorry that he needed him to. "Mom left when I was little and my dad died when I was four." Lance swallowed any verbal expression of sympathy. He didn't think Keith wanted it.

"All right," he soothed, staying practical. "So who do I call?" He thought of lots of other questions too. What had his father died from? Something that he'd passed to Keith in his genetics? Where was his mom? Who had looked after him from the time he was four until now? Though it suddenly made sense that they would have needed doctor's notes for whoever his guardian at the time had been to register him for school. "Keith?"

"Shiro, I guess," Keith said, looking down now. Lance reminded himself to be patient, that Keith wasn't being difficult and secretive on purpose. It also became clear to him about why he could have been avoiding the biography assignment. He probably didn't want anyone to know any of this.

"Who is that? Are they listed in your phone?" Lance pressed a little more. It was just too important not to. "Should we call now to say where you are?"

"Don't call him!" Keith snarled, similar to when he'd freaked out over the backpack. "He'll think . . .Don't call anyone; just forget it."

"Whoa, calm down," Lance said steadily, regretting getting Keith all worked up again by something so seemingly innocent. He'd flushed alarmingly, panting. Lance now had way too many questions. Who was Shiro? Why not call him? Why so frantic about it? Keith looked like he was going into shock. "I won't. Now put your head down before you throw up."

Lance tugged Keith down onto the couch with absolutely zero resistance. He had meant to tuck him into his own bed seeing as Pidge would actually be sleeping on the couch tonight. She was the only one short enough to do so comfortably. But that could wait a while – until Keith was stable again. Lance went quickly into his bedroom to snag his pillow and the quilt, returning to find Keith still breathing hard, lying on his side, one hand clenched in the fabric of his coat. Yeah, there was no way Lance could leave him. He covered him tenderly, helping him lift his head a little to slide the pillow underneath it, keeping his mouth shut, listening to the wind picking up outside, putting pressure into the apartment, letting everything slow. Lance settled cross-legged on the floor, resting his palm against Keith's burning forehead, which made him flinch at first but then his expression smoothed.

"I'm sorry," Keith murmured, worn out, emotionally and physically exhausted.

"Me too," Lance answered quietly, feeling the beginning of doubt peeling back at the edges of his training. It seemed the more questions he asked, the deeper the mystery of Keith became. But Keith wasn't here so Lance could solve that mystery. He was helping him get well, that was all. He needed to keep his personal curiosity out of it. They weren't friends, and Keith didn't owe him any explanations. "I'm going to make you some soup," he said, pushing his emotions down. "You probably don't feel like eating it, but it's been over twenty hours since you ate anything and dehydration isn't going to do you any favors. Just keep breathing steady for me."

"Ok," Keith whispered.

"I'll be in the other room for a minute. I need to make a phone call."

Keith didn't answer that one, and Lance stood up again, moving away, feeling the long night he had ahead of him stretching his soul, making him uncomfortable. He'd done this many times over, for people much closer to him. This felt different. He stared down at Keith, imprinting the sharp lines of his face, the twitch of his shoulders. What is it about you, Lobito? What is it that makes me do things I never do? Slamming down his textbook this morning, getting angry enough for violence, breaking into a room, bringing a stranger home with him. Canceling his date with Allura.

That brought him up short. Was he really going to do that? Dial her number and tell her he wasn't coming four hours before they were supposed to get together? The girl he fantasized so much about . . . except today, the one day where he should have been thinking about her nonstop. He was going to screw up this one chance he had with her?

Keith's hand gradually relaxed as Lance stood watching him. His body forcing him to let go. Lance folded his arms, knowing his choice had been made a long time ago. Keith needed him; Allura . . . humiliating as it was, honestly didn't. Lance moved unconsciously to his room, staring out the window at the snow, which was falling faster now. Tiny, blurred flakes whipping around the Museum, the lake. He pulled up her number in his contacts, holding the phone in both hands.

"Damn it, Keith," he muttered out loud, pressing the call button without looking at it.

**Author's Note: Yeah Keith, you had better be worth all this trouble. You poor little wolf pup. **


	4. Arrhythmia

**Author's Note: This story feels so intimate to me. I have a handful of you wonderful people writing consistent reviews and it's really nice. I appreciate you so much. Thanks for the messages. Thanks for waiting for new chapters. Since this story is Really Slow, so much slower than my other things, I feel like I need to review it so carefully. I scrutinize each word carefully this time around. It takes time, and even then I post a chapter and realize that I didn't mean to write something that way. Still, I feel like this one is ready for you. Please enjoy!**

**Chapter Four: Arrhythmia**

"Yes?"

Lance felt as though all the fluid in his brain suddenly whipped itself into a whirlpool, then drained in a rush deep into his stomach. Allura's voice had a specific timbre to it, like windchimes. It also had the unnerving ability to liquify all of his muscles. He gripped the back of his desk chair to anchor himself. His mouth opened, but he was so busy giving himself mental reminders on how to be suave that he quite forgot whatever he'd meant to say.

"Hello?" Allura spoke a second greeting. Lance could hear the frown in it, knowing he had to speak up soon or she was going to hang up. Don't crack; he commanded his voice one last time, taking a deep breath. Out of all the things you've already done today rescheduling a date should be cake.

"A-allura, hi," he managed, lowering his head at the stutter. He couldn't even do her name? Seriously? Whatever, keep going, it's too late now. "It's Lance – you know, from the donation center?" 

"Yes, of course," her tone changed immediately, brightening. An encouraging sign. "I'm glad you called; you forgot to give me your number the other day. We're on for seven, aren't we?"

Lance glanced outside, the sun already far gone from his Eastern facing window, the snow blowing in menacing tendrils across the street three stories down. He knew he was an island boy, but sometimes native Midwesterners made no sense to him – like he was truly afraid to see what they considered bad weather.

"About that," he said, feeling her stiffen up however many miles away she physically stood, an almost audible static on the line connecting them. "I'm thinking we should reschedule. It's snowing hard out there, and I don't want anything to happen to you getting to or from campus after nightfall."

"That's so thoughtful," she told him, sweetly, and his heart beat harder a couple times. "But you don't have to worry; I'm already here. I had a class this morning and just stayed." Lance bowed his head lower. He'd been hoping that he wouldn't have to explain about Keith, that the storm would have been reason enough to pick a different day. It somehow seemed less awkward to blame the snow, or at least if they agreed on the weather, it would be as if they were both making the same decision instead of just him needing to rearrange things. Guess that wouldn't be the reality of the situation.

"I . . . still need to reschedule," he confessed, having a difficult time coming up with the right words. "My . .Um." What was he supposed to call Keith? "My friend," he decided on the fastest option. "He's really sick. I thought I could let him rest here by himself, but . . .he's . . I don't think I can leave him. I'm sorry."

"Lance," Allura responded, voice icy all of a sudden, someone not used to having her plans rearranged. Someone who didn't like having her time taken advantage of. Lance held his breath; he'd never heard her say his name out loud before and wished it hadn't sounded like that. "If you don't want to meet me, you can just say so."

"But I do!" Lance protested, standing straight, starting to ramble in his earnestness to convince her that he would have liked nothing better in the world than to be with her tonight, helping her, looking at her, watching her move without being restrained by the plasma donation equipment. Taking her hand, if he really got brave, seeing what her skin felt like without the barrier of gloves. Speaking full, complete sentences, whole conversations, without being interrupted by the beeping of a machine and the necessary tasks of his job. He'd wanted all of that. . . so much. He wanted it more than what he actually had waiting for him tonight. But there were things he wanted to do and things he needed to do. Staying with Keith felt like something he needed to do. He wished he could make her understand that.

"That's not it. I was really looking forward to it," he told her, emphatically. "Trust me, I know this is the worst possible timing, but there's no one else who can stay with him, and I'm an EMT and I think he might –"

"Just stop, please," Allura cut him off, rather sharply. "If you were going to stand me up, I wish you'd done it a little sooner. . . like maybe before the storm started so I could have gone home."

"Stand you . . .," Lance's brain took a long time to process what she was saying. "Wait. You don't . . .you think I'm lying to you? Allura, I would never do that." Except he'd been lying all day long. But not to her! Karma is such a vicious bitch.

"First it's the weather, then it's your 'friend'," he wasn't sure how he could hear the verbal quotation marks she put around the word, but they were definitely there. "Here's a little tip; make up your mind which excuse you're going with before you make the call. Or better yet, just tell the truth. I'll have you know I went to a lot of trouble to make sure I'd make it tonight."

Lance's mind was racing now, trying to find a solution, a way he could still spend the time with her that she was expecting. First he thought of having her come to his apartment too so he could be with them both at the same time, but he dismissed it almost as soon as it came to him. He didn't want to risk exposing Allura to Keith's illness. And Hunk and Pidge weren't home; not that he'd feel comfortable asking them to take care of Keith for him – that was a responsibility that he'd signed up for all by himself. Maybe he could take a picture of Keith? Prove that he wasn't lying?

What are you doing, Lance? He stopped himself as the ideas became more and more desperate. It's a very simple choice here. Allura or Keith. A choice he'd already made before he picked up the phone to call her. If she couldn't believe he was telling the truth, then that was on her, wasn't it? There was nothing more he could do.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, a new strength in his voice that he hadn't expected. Now he was going to be able to talk like a real person? "This came up very suddenly; the flu is like that. If you text me your email address, I'll do a write up of my experience with Dr. Farmer and send it to you for your report, but I can't leave him tonight, not even for a few hours."

"Lance," Allura said his name again, but he wasn't sure what the tone was now. He felt a little hollow and sad, let down. He had expected her to be upset, disappointed perhaps, but not angry. At best, he thought she'd completely understand and at worst, that he'd lose some points for being a flake, but he had never anticipated that she'd think he was lying to get out of seeing her. That stung his spirit, and now all he wanted to do was get off the phone.

"I hope I'll see you Wednesday," he said in parting, hanging up without letting her respond further. He lowered the phone, realizing just that second that the Ibuprofen he'd taken earlier for his cheek was wearing off. It was starting to hurt again. Carefully, he covered the bruise with his palm, taking a moment of self-pity, feeling beat up inside and out. Feeling a little disoriented and frustrated at how his schedule had been smashed to pieces, and it wasn't even fair.

"Who was that?"

Lance jumped, the harsh question stabbing sharp in the base of his spine and jerking his heart in a painful rush. He spun around to see Keith standing just outside his bedroom door, leaning against the frame, his face a ghastly combination of pale, confused apprehension and hot rage. Both his hands were solid fists – wild, wounded, and dangerously defensive. Lance felt his eyes widen, not sure what to do here. He'd thought he left Keith falling asleep on the couch. How long had he been standing there? How had he snuck up on him without making a sound? What had Lance done this time to make him look so angry?

"Who were you talking to?" Keith rephrased his question since Lance hadn't answered yet, too surprised and intimidated to speak. "You said you wouldn't call." Oh, that's what he meant. He thought that Lance had slipped away to call . . . whatever that guy's name was. Lance breathed out the injustice of that, of being accused of lying twice in just as many minutes. For Allura, it didn't matter so much, only his pride and prospects wounded, but he needed to settle Keith down pretty fast for several reasons. First, Keith's system wasn't handling the stress of this exertion very well; he was losing color in his face at an alarming rate. Second, Lance had no desire to get hit again and even though Keith was definitely not at his best right now, Lance didn't doubt that he could still do some damage if he wanted to.

"What did you tell him?" Keith demanded, threatening and ruined, raising terror and tenderness in Lance. Keith's voice – the resignation. Allura suddenly seemed petty and childish by comparison. Spoiled almost. This, Allura, Lance thought as he pondered the conflict that was Keith standing in front of him. This is what broken trust really looks like. This is what years of being lied to looks like. In fact, the way Keith spoke, the tone of his words and the hurt in his eyes made Lance wonder if he'd even recognize the truth if Lance told it to him. It was like he was expecting to be betrayed – like his life wouldn't make sense any other way.

"I didn't call him," Lance assured, wondering if it would make any difference to say it, holding up both hands in supplication, worried on many levels, ready to pull up his phone history as evidence. "I said I wouldn't, and I didn't. I had a date later that I needed to cancel. That's who I was talking to."

"A date?" Keith repeated, still skeptical, his whole body wound tight, like it had been this morning when they'd had their first altercation. Oh, Keith, what happened to you? What made him like this? Why did he think he had to fight the entire world?

"Yeah, a study date," Lance tried to soothe him. "I do go on dates. Quite often, actually." He kept his tone light, put in some humor to diffuse this situation. Keith shouldn't be standing; Lance could see he was already starting to tremble with the effort of it, that it was taking all he had to stay upright and fight ready. "But I'm taking care of you tonight, like I promised you, so I had to let her know I wasn't coming."

"You . . ." Keith began, but then seemed to lose his train of thought, blinking fast, making Lance question his lucidity. He'd seen this before at the donation center. This was the kind of behavior he'd see in patients right before they passed out.

Lance began moving toward Keith, intent on guiding him back to the couch before he fainted, or maybe to his bed, that was closer. But he'd only taken one step before Keith cringed back, his defenses on high alert, shifting his body for what looked to Lance like the preparation of a strike. Fear and pity spread out in Lance's chest. Keith was such a contradiction. Such a strange combination of vulnerability and violence. It was unsettling. Lance wondered exactly what Keith could be capable of if he were functioning at one hundred percent.

"Keith," Lance called his name gently, his real name this time since he needed every edge he could get for communicating. He didn't have a lot of time for this. "Hey, it's ok. I just want to help you. Remember? You're here for me to help you? I'd like to do that now, so is it safe if I come over there to you? You shouldn't be moving around so much."

"What?" Keith seemed confused by what Lance had just said, but Lance could sense a slight change in him. He was relaxing . . . or losing consciousness. Hard to tell from where Lance stood. "Safe?"

"You look like you're going to attack me if I take another step," Lance explained patiently, even though he was watching Keith with a growing sense of urgency. His face was almost gray. "I'd rather not do that again if it's all the same. So could you not hit me if I come over there, please?"

"I'm not going to hit you," Keith responded, sounding even more confused. "Why would you think. . ?"

"Look at yourself," Lance told him, softly, slowly taking another step closer, hands still lifted as if Keith had a gun on him. "Look at your fists. Look how you're shaking. Let's get out of this stand off before you fall down, all right?" Keith obediently looked at his hands, seeing them as if they belonged to someone else, actually seeming surprised that they were balled up so tightly. His fingers uncurled rather stiffly, his mouth open, looking stricken, shocked. Lance didn't really know what to make of it. Was this what the fever was doing to him? Something else? Either way, Lance didn't like it. He'd never seen anyone so extreme. Keith covered his face with his hands, horrified, messing up his equilibrium to the point that he fell back hard against the doorframe, leaning against it, but in such a way that Lance could tell he would full on lose his balance any second now. He needed to get over there, no matter what happened to him.

"Keith," Lance spoke to him as he sped to his side. He still wasn't all that convinced it was safe to do so, especially now that Keith had his eyes covered and couldn't watch him approach, but he didn't want him to fall. "I'm right here, but I'm not going to hurt you, ok? You're not going to hurt me. Because we trust each other, don't we?"

Keith flinched as Lance bravely put his hands on him, jerking his hands away from his face, looking up slightly so he could meet Lance's eyes. Lance still couldn't tell what color Keith's were, but there was still plenty to see in them. He was hurting, unsteady, uncertain – everything Lance wanted to fix. Gaining courage from his success in getting close without physical violence, Lance wrapped his hand around Keith's waist, tucking a thumb into his belt loop and pulling Keith's arm over his shoulder, the first time he was close enough without their coats on to really feel the fever heat on him, the intensity of it. He was getting worse.

"That's it," Lance complimented, though he was growing more worried by the second. Keith was in really bad shape. What had he gotten himself into here? Maybe his apartment wasn't the best place for Keith. Maybe he should have taken him to the hospital instead. It didn't help when Keith gasped painfully out of nowhere, clutching at his chest and sagging into Lance while he was still orienting them for movement.

"What's going on, Keith?" Lance grunted as he did his best to accommodate Keith's sudden weight on him, the question shooting out fast, not as calm as he wanted to be. Patients needed their doctors to be calm. He'd rather expected Keith to faint, not . . . whatever this was. He tried again, needing more information. "What hurts? Can you tell me?"

"I don't know," Keith managed, his eyes closing, but the location of his hand was a hint. He was breathing all right, too fast, but not with difficulty, so that meant his lungs weren't the problem.

"Is it your heart?" Lance guessed. "Keith? Your heart hurts?"

"Maybe?" Keith choked out the answer, and Lance's brain opened a textbook in his memory, sorting through the myriad of diagnoses for this particular symptom, combating with his concern to focus only on facts instead of letting his imagination fly into full on panic. As in, he could very clearly see that Keith wasn't going into cardiac arrest, so he could rule out heart attack. His head could at least – his soul seemed to want to hang on to it somehow, like this was the beginning of something serious. Something he may not know how to fix.

"Let's check it out," Lance offered, way more calm than he felt, a promise to both of them. Just because he'd never seen this before didn't mean he couldn't help. He just needed more data, a few more facts, then a strategy. He eased them forward, heading back toward the couch and his medical bag, where his stethoscope was, murmuring encouragement the whole way. Keith seemed to recover somewhat before they got there, standing a little straighter, removing his hand, not putting so much of his weight onto Lance, a relief since Lance wasn't sure he could have made it all the way to the couch the way they'd started.

"Sit down," Lance instructed, breathless himself now from half-carrying Keith down the hall. He lowered Keith into his original position on the cushions, pushing the blanket out of the way as he did so. "And put your feet up; come on." As he told Keith what to do, Lance grabbed his coat, balling it up into a little roll and tucking it under his ankles, taking an extra few seconds to check Keith's feet for swelling. They looked ok, normal, which was encouraging. He could cross off a few more heart-related issues on his mental list.

Keith didn't look ok when Lance straightened to check him, but that was expected. He leaned sideways, propped up by Lance's pillow against the arm of the couch, letting his head swivel toward the backrest, twisted, shivering and panting. As Lance studied, he tightened up again, pushing against his chest, his face scrunching up at the discomfort, shrinking into the back of the couch. Ok. So this came in waves. Lance drew the blanket over his legs, then dug into the bag for the stethoscope. Meanwhile, Keith wilted again, drained after the episode, letting Lance know that they were dealing with short, intense bursts. Lance nodded, narrowing it down, nestling the buds into his ears and perching near Keith's hip.

"Can you move your hands, Keith? I'm going to listen to your heart," Lance warned him before lifting his shirt up and snaking his hand underneath. "There's no way for me not to make it cold, so brace yourself for me." Keith didn't have the energy for a response, and he only recoiled slightly as the metal hit his skin. Lance listened as Keith's heartbeat filled his head, bowing his chin to his chest, reaching out to put a hand on Keith's shoulder to keep him calm during the procedure. He knew he wasn't going to get the complete picture this way. That an EKG test would be much more accurate, but this was all he had at the moment. At first, everything seemed as expected. The heart was beating fast, as if Keith were jogging instead of lying reclined on a couch, a symptom called tachycardia, but Lance already knew about that. There was nothing abnormal here. Nothing to cause that kind of reaction. He'd missed it.

"Take a deep breath," Lance told him, testing something, hearing the rushing whoosh of it into Keith's lungs as he complied. But he cut off, holding his breath, curling up on the couch as another painful wave started. Lance pushed against him to keep him from folding up, needing to keep everything in place to hear what was going on, starting to understand. Keith's heart revved up hard, making him release that deep breath in an involuntary whimper. Arrhythmia. Which could mean any number of things. Simple stress or something as serious as myocarditis. Lance thought they'd start with stress, God knew Keith was under plenty of that, and they'd work their way from there.

"Ok," Lance assured, partly to himself, as if he were completely in control, as if he knew exactly what was going on, listening as things slowed down inside Keith. Not enough, but definitely improvement. The real trick would be keeping him calm – especially since Lance hadn't figured out exactly why he freaked out about certain things for no apparent reason. Lance removed the stethoscope, pulling it from his ears and letting it dangle off his neck, replacing Keith's shirt and then pulling the blanket up. He went ahead and rested his own hand on Keith's chest, over his heart, as if he could slow it that way. They needed to have a chat, but judging from the way he'd been talking earlier, confused, Lance wasn't sure he'd be able to focus or remember anything he said. Still, he was going to try.

"Hey, Keith – Lobito, can you look at me?" With difficulty, Keith turned his head from the back of the couch, raising tired eyes to him. So far so good. "I think I know what's going on." Keith winced again, more gasping, shoving both hands on top of Lance's on his chest, an indication to Lance that the palpitations had started again, though he could not feel them under his hand. That was actually a good sign. It meant that however it felt to Keith, who was undoubtedly hypersensitive to any pain right now, this was relatively mild. For now.

"Easy," Lance implored him, knowing that sometimes even benign symptoms still felt like they could kill you. "You need to calm down. You're stressing out your heart, and it's already working overtime. What's happening to you is called arrhythmia, and it's when your pulse speeds up or beats erratically. It's like . . . um," he faltered for an analogy that would make sense, but he didn't know Keith well enough to know what he would understand as a comparison. "It's like a car engine," he decided. "Have you ever revved the engine in a car? Put it in park and then just hit the gas to hear how it sounds? How loud and fast it can get?" He wasn't sure, but he thought Keith might have nodded, the tiniest bit. "That's what your heart is doing, and it's a problem that perpetuates itself, does that make sense? You get stressed out, your heart overreacts to that stress, creates the palpitations that are making it so you can't breathe very well, which naturally creates more stress and the cycle continues. Are you with me?"

"How do I make it stop?" Keith gasped, innocent and suffering. He'd clamped one hand tight around Lance's wrist.

"You relax," Lance explained simply, hoping to convey that this should be easy. He didn't tell Keith that unless he did relax, unless they could make this stop, it could progress and get worse. It could get so bad that the delicate tissues of his heart could become inflamed, which would trigger his immune response to retain fluid there, enlarge the muscle. If that happened, every breath would be labored, would be painful, a continuous suffering instead of a wave. It could take months to resolve. It could lead to other, very serious complications. "You keep calm," Lance went on, deliberately slowing his voice to initiate the response he was looking for.

"Ok," Keith agreed, though he didn't look like it would be all that simple for him, which Lance sort of figured. Keith was high-strung; this might be against all his programming.

"And we need to get as much stress off your heart as possible," Lance continued, thinking of ways to help, trying not to think too much on any dark future. Patients need their doctors to be calm. "We'll start by getting your fever under control." Lance brought his other hand into the tangle against Keith's chest, pulling him off his wrist and folding Keith's hands gently over his heart, resting both of his over them. His instinct was to rub his thumbs over the top of Keith's hands, but he remembered at the last second that the position they were already in was probably intimate enough for Keith.

"Close your eyes, Lobito," Lance lulled, quiet, soft, using his voice instead of his hands. "You're going to be fine. Just breathe."

"What does that mean?" Keith asked, also quiet, not so much soft. Lance resisted the urge to lean over and kiss him on the forehead as if he were one of Lance's young nephews. It means you're very sick, he thought. It means you're worse than I thought, worse than I've ever seen. It means that I'm glad I talked you into coming over here, that I made the right choice staying with you. It means we have a long way to go before you're over this, and you're going to need to save your strength.

"It means you need to rest," Lance said simply, knowing what Keith was asking but not wanting to tell him. He wasn't sure he'd appreciate being compared to a wolf cub. "It means stay here."

"Where are you going?" Keith's voice sounded scared now. For all his intensity this morning, every 'get away from me' and 'leave me the hell alone' that he'd thrown at Lance earlier, he hadn't really meant it. For all he was used to being on his own, he didn't want that now. Instead of a kiss, Lance put his hand on Keith's forehead in reassurance. Keith involuntarily closed his eyes, taking a deep, though shuddering, breath, and Lance watched his shoulders melt into the couch as he relaxed into it, more exhausted than actually comfortable.

"I'm not going anywhere," Lance promised. "I know my apartment is huge compared to your room, but honestly, I can't get very far away. I'm going to the kitchen to make you that soup. It doesn't take long - less than ten minutes – I'll talk to you the whole time. Then I'm going to get you some medicine and water to take it with. And then, God willing, you are going to sleep."

Keith opened his eyes again to stare at Lance, who had never seen anyone stare like Keith did. He could see more trust there now, a touch of what could be gratitude. More than a touch of fear. The tiniest bit of protest.

"Don't move," Lance commanded, firm. "Your heart has enough to do already."

He slid his hand up, smoothing Keith's hair off his forehead and standing in the same motion. Keith didn't look ready for him to go, but Lance wanted to get some food and medication into him as soon as possible. It hadn't been all that bright of a day to start with, but there were definite shadows in the apartment now. The way the room was put together, with no windows in the kitchen, made Lance need the light on in order to see well enough to cook. Outside, the wind had begun to shriek, and Lance imagined Pidge explaining to him why, the pitch of her voice, the sure rapid string of her words, most of them ones he didn't know, telling him probably something about the direction and the temperature. Something about Lake Effect. There was almost always something about Lake Effect. He quickly shrugged aside how much he missed her and Hunk. He wanted them here with him, safe and warm and present.

"Hunk makes this better than I do," Lance said out loud, talking to Keith. And I wish he were here right now to prove it so I could stay there by the couch with you. The living room and kitchen were only separated by a partial wall, a little taller than Lance's hip. Lance had a decent view of Keith if he looked that way, but Keith could only see Lance from the waist up and only if he stayed the way he was, reclined instead of lying down.

"We made the recipe up together," Lance went on, good on his word to keep talking, for whatever comfort that could give, a distraction if nothing else. "We were trying to make it into a joke, you know – a physician, a physicist, and an engineer walk into a kitchen with a chemistry book – but that's all the farther we made it. If you think of a good punch line for that, let me know."

He paused, not sure what to say next, opening the cupboard doors in search of the ingredients he needed. Chicken broth bouillon, rice wine vinegar, ginger, soy sauce from the fridge, a couple eggs and a green onion or two. He searched the lower cabinets for the pan that Hunk always used for this, the clunk and rattle of the shuffling reminding him of his mother's kitchen in Varadero, a bittersweet reminiscence to him that stung just a little harder as he remembered what Keith had said about his own mother. How she left him. Lance glanced over his shoulder as he straightened with the pan, checking on Keith. How? He couldn't understand that, trying to grasp what that could be like. What that might do to a child, what sort of twist it could put in a soul to grow up that way. But that wasn't a good topic of conversation. He couldn't ever ask.

"A physicist?" Keith repeated, warming Lance's spirit a bit since it sounded like he was trying to make conversation. And it was just the thing to get Lance going on something less gloomy.

"Astrophysicist, I should say," Lance corrected himself. "That's Pidge, but Hunk's into that stuff too. They make a great team, really. Pidge comes up with an idea, and Hunk figures out how to make it happen. All that stuff by this wall here is theirs." Lance paused in the soup prep to lean over the partition wall, sweeping his arm across the cardboard boxes where their magpie collection of tech bits and bobs lived when Lance made them move it off the table. "I don't really know what any of it is, but they'd be happy to tell you more than you ever want to know if you ask them." If they ever come home.

Lance broke the eggs into a measuring cup, whipping them with a fork, the broth starting to bubble slightly, its scent temporarily overpowering the curry that Hunk had left in the crockpot. The curry that wouldn't be done for another couple of hours.

"They're waiting to hear from the Jet Propulsion Lab in California about some internship they applied for," Lance continued talking about his friends, waiting for the soup to full on boil before he poured the eggs into it where they would cook instantly into strings. "They'll have to move to Pasadena if they get in." He stopped talking as that really hit him. They would have to move. If they got in, they'd be gone in less than a month. Gone where he couldn't follow, and suddenly he no longer wanted them to succeed in this, didn't want to be left behind. He distracted himself with the eggs – the slower the pour, stirring immediately with a fork, the finer the strings. If he did it right, the strands would be so delicate that the soup could easily be sipped from a mug with no need for a spoon. Then turn off the heat and sprinkle chopped green onion on top. The fastest alternative to standard chicken soup ever. And they had all agreed it tasted better too.

"Here we go," Lance remarked, ladling soup into two mugs (he'd skipped lunch going to see Keith and there was no way he was going to wait for the curry to be finished). Keith hadn't moved from where Lance left him, sitting completely still with his hands still resting over his heart, head leaning against the back of the couch.

"Let it cool a minute," Lance warned him as he set both mugs down on the tiny coffee table. "I'll be right back with that medicine." He hurried to the bathroom where he kept a small pharmacy of drugs – Nyquil, Neosporin, Cortisone 10. Epsom salt. He selected Tylenol PM for Keith; it had everything that he needed and would be easy on his system. A pain killer, a fever reducer, and a sleep aid – not to be taken on an empty stomach. He thought of another dose of Ibuprofen for himself but decided to wait. He'd use an ice pack first now that he was home and could take the time for it. He tipped two pills into his hand and then went back to the kitchen for water.

"It's just Tylenol," he told Keith as he held both the water and the medicine out to him. "Should bring that fever down a little and take some of the ache away for you. Help you sleep." Keith took everything from him slowly but without hesitation. "Drink all the water if you can," Lance encouraged.

"How come you're so good at this?" Keith asked out of nowhere, studying the pills. Lance internally preened at the compliment, though he hadn't really done anything yet to deserve it.

"Practice," he dismissed. "I told you, I've already nursed five other people through the flu this winter." Though no one was as bad as you are, he added in his head.

"This is," Keith paused, gathering his thoughts, looking Lance up and down again as he had when they'd been in his room. "This is really who you are, isn't it?" Lance didn't understand the question.

"The one and only," he returned, uncertain. "Take the medicine."

Keith looked like he wanted to say something else, but didn't. He swallowed the pills one at a time, a minor detail that Lance filed away for future reference. He didn't finish the water, but Lance let that go as he exchanged the glass for the soup mug. . . which Keith stared into, holding it carefully in both hands. Lance wondered why he did that. He stared at everything, like it was all brand new to him.

"Breathe deep," Lance told him, knowing how comforting the rich, salty scent of the soup could be if Keith's chest were still in any way tight from the arrhythmia attack earlier. Keith obeyed, his hands starting to shake, making Lance worried again. What now?

"You doing ok?" He asked, a stupid question. There was nothing ok about Keith, but he hadn't been shaking a second ago. He nodded a quick, voiceless response. Lance knelt at his side, reaching out to steady the mug so the soup wouldn't spill. "Can you manage just a couple swallows of this for me?" He helped Keith bring the cup to his mouth, helped him tip it slightly, watched him drink as if it were difficult, as if his throat weren't quite working the way it should. He pulled it back for a break, monitoring Keith intently as he closed his eyes.

"That's," Keith whispered. "That's so good." Lance smiled, unbalanced, then understanding washed over him as he watched a tear escape down Keith's cheek. He was holding his breath again.

"Keith," Lance said, getting his attention though he kept his eyes closed, struggling with himself. Lance took the mug, replacing it on the coffee table next to his, then twisted himself up off the floor and onto the couch facing Keith. He put a hand on his arm.

"Don't," Keith hissed, though not angrily. Lance paid no attention. If he wanted Keith to keep stress off his heart, then this wasn't going to work.

"No, _you_ don't," Lance countered. "You're all tense again; don't do that." He began to rub Keith's arm gently and steadily. His breathing had become erratic. "Your heart can't take the strain, remember? It's ok. This happens to everyone; I promise. It doesn't mean anything except you're sick. I can leave if that will make it easier, but stop trying to hold it in like that." Keith's hand shot out, unexpectedly, closing around the fabric of Lance's scrub top, as clear a sign as any that he didn't want Lance to go anywhere. That settled that. Now time to gently break loose the already crumbling wall that Keith had built up around his emotions. It might hurt at first, but he'd feel better in the long run.

"Come here," Lance invited, though in the end Keith didn't move and it was Lance who shifted closer. Keith's hand stayed where it was, curled in his shirt, while Lance put his arms around him.

"Why are you so damn nice?" Keith asked, his voice tight, bringing up the hand that wasn't holding on to Lance to cover his face.

"The better question is why are you so surprised by it? Don't you think you deserve someone to be nice to you for once?" Lance returned, running his hand up and down Keith's back as far as he could reach from the somewhat awkward position he'd placed himself in. That did it. Keith broke. He lowered his face, the top of his head pressed into the small hollow under Lance's collarbone, and let himself cry. Lance closed his eyes too as he registered the hurt in the sound. He didn't understand it. Why for some people it was kindness that brought all this out more than anything negative they'd already gone through. You could beat them down for days, for years, and they'd take it with a solid resolution and never make a single sound. But the second you started to be gentle with them and they would dissolve. He didn't understand it – even though he was exactly the same.

"That's better," Lance encouraged, and Keith actually sobbed into his shirt. Lance winced for him. It was like he was holding a flame in his arms, a fallen star burning on the verge of extinguishing itself. He hadn't lied to Keith; every single one of the people he'd helped through this illness had been overly emotional. They had all cried at least once. That was how Lance had discovered Hunk was sick in the first place – he'd found him weeping over a burned batch of cookies. What he hadn't said was that the intensity seemed to directly correlate more to emotional health than physical health. It didn't bother Hunk to be seen crying, so after that first bout with the failed baking, he hadn't done it again. Pidge, on the other hand, liked to pretend she was as cold the electronics she studied so hard. Consequently, she had cried repeatedly through her illness.

But again, as with everything else, Keith was different. More intense. Harder. Lance wasn't even surprised. He kept quiet for what seemed like a long time, thinking about it, rubbing Keith's back, knowing that there was more going on here than a fever. It might have something to do with Keith's absence the last couple weeks. It could be the culmination of his entire life, but there was so much more about Keith's heart that needed healing.

"Keith," he eventually said once he felt like he might be winding down a little. "Look . . . I know it's none of my business, but . . . if you're going through something, you can talk to me about it. You don't have to be alone anymore."

Keith pulled back, breaking his hold, hiding his face in both hands. Lance allowed him the distance, shifting his hands to Keith's leg.

"How can you be like that?" Keith said, rearranging Lance's thoughts. He said the strangest things at the weirdest times. "If you knew –"

"I'd still want to help you," Lance assured, not being able to think of a single thing that Keith could have done that would change that at this point. Slowly, Keith uncovered his face, allowing Lance to make eye contact with him. Tears and fever gleam still obscured the color. Lance wondered if he'd ever be able to make it out. What he could see was exhaustion, and desire. There was something that Keith was hiding, that he couldn't trust Lance with yet, but it seemed like he might want to. So much fear.

"The offer stands," Lance told him, twisting to pick up the mug again. "When you're ready, or never if you don't want to. For right now, do you think you can drink some more of this?"

Keith took the mug, his hands steady now, suddenly unable to look at Lance anymore. Lance reminded himself over and over that he shouldn't ask him anything, that it really was none of his business. But what was he beating himself up over? What made him think that Lance would reject him? Did it have anything to do with Shiro? With whatever he kept hidden in his backpack? Would he ever trust Lance enough to tell him?

But it shouldn't matter. He didn't need to know what happened. His job was the same, though not as simple as he'd thought it would be. He drank his own soup as Keith finished what he could. Then he helped him walk back to his bedroom, where they had another awkward exchange about changing into pajama pants. Keith didn't have any, so Lance loaned him his favorite pair, adamant that he could not be comfortable sleeping in his jeans. Keith didn't have much strength, so Lance had to help him. By the time he was changed and under the covers, he could barely keep his eyes open.

"Where are you going to sleep?" Was the last thing he asked. Lance didn't answer him. The truth was he probably wouldn't, at least not well, until the fever broke. He always missed the moment it happened. He always drifted off, and he resolved harder each time that he wouldn't do that again. He wanted to see it, how it worked. Wanted to know why it always seemed to happen between two and three in the morning. Why it seemed like it couldn't happen unless he wasn't watching. Such a mystery. Something he wanted to study. Like Keith himself.

Lance sat next to Keith on the bed on top of the blankets, setting his hand on his head again. Keith seemed to like that. He lay peaceful, maybe for the first time, breathing steady and deep. They still had a long night ahead of them, but for right now, Keith was going to get some rest.

"I'll be right here," Lance promised, smoothing his thumb over Keith's eyebrow. He didn't stop until long after he knew that Keith had fallen asleep, just to make sure.

**Author's Note: Does anybody want the recipe for the soup? It really is the best thing for colds and stuff. Just in case – here you go:**

Egg Drop Soup

Ingredients:

1 qt chicken broth (I cheat and use bouillon cubes)

1 Tbsp soy sauce

1 Tbsp rice vinegar

1/4 tsp fresh ginger (again, I cheat. I use a half teaspoon of ginger spice.

I think. I don't actually measure)

2 - 3 chopped green onions

2 eggs

Method:

Start your chicken broth in a medium pan over medium-high heat. Add the soy

sauce, rice vinegar, ginger, and onions. Simmer the ingredients together for

a few minutes, maybe five. I normally just start heating my water and

bouillon and by the time I'm done chopping the onion up (I use scissors and

cut it directly over the soup), it's simmering nicely so I don't really

measure how long. This soup is rather forgiving.

Break your eggs into something with a lip for pouring and beat them. Then

pour about 1/4 of your eggs into the pot at a time and stir them with a

fork. They will shred instantly, so make sure you're ready to stir the

second you start pouring. The faster you pour the eggs, the larger your egg

pieces will be in the soup. If you want neat, tiny shreds, pour just a bit

at a time. 

**Thanks again, you're all amazing! I promise, we will get to see what Keith's hiding in that backpack. And Hunk and Pidge are coming home eventually. What would you like to see? Apparently we have tons of time.**


	5. Thundersnow

**Author's Note: As always, thanks for your patience and reviews and reading and all the wonderful things that you do. I appreciate you so much!**

**Chapter Five: Thundersnow**

While sleep was the best thing for Keith, it was Lance's least favorite part of taking care of someone. He liked to be useful, to be doing something. Waiting around, quietly monitoring someone as they slept, didn't require enough effort, didn't feel like assistance. It made him feel edgy and restless. The storm and his missing friends made it worse.

He stayed with Keith for a while, resting a gentle hand on his brow to keep him calm and quiet as he drifted off. The medication seemed to be helping him sleep at least, though it was not touching his temperature. He was still burning up. Some people were like that. Their body chemistry put together in such a way that certain medications just didn't work how they were supposed to, or only worked partially. Like the one patient Lance had seen where the muscle relaxant component of Vicodin worked for him, but the pain reliever part did not. Lance would have to experiment a little to see what would and wouldn't help Keith, though he was hesitant to do that. Hopefully, the fever would break in a few more hours and it wouldn't be necessary.

Once Lance was sure that Keith was asleep, he fetched his notebook to write down some stats before he forgot them. How much Keith had eaten of the soup, the time he'd taken the Tylenol and the dosage. The time he'd fallen asleep. The crying. His last temperature that Lance had taken before he'd tucked him into bed. It had risen to 103.1 – which meant that Lance had a new mental timer to keep track of. If it continued to rise, or stayed over 103 for forty-eight hours, he'd have to take him to the hospital, which was less than two miles away, but somehow, with the storm and knowing how hard it would be for Keith to move, what it would do to his heart, it seemed across the country rather than just across campus. It also felt like failure. He'd told Keith that _he_ would take care of him, not strangers working the nightshift at the ER.

The storm intensified and Lance grew more agitated as the apartment seemed to shrink on him. He put away the curry, cleaned the kitchen, then the bathroom. Made up the couch with the extra sheets and blankets they kept specifically for Pidge when she slept over. He wrote up his meeting with Paul Farmer on the computer that Hunk and Pidge had built for him, just so he'd have it at a moment's notice if Allura texted him her email address. He checked his phone obsessively. No messages from her or anyone else. He started sending texts to Hunk and Pidge, at first casual, then becoming increasingly worried when they didn't respond. A steady, uneasy rotation began as the sun set and hours went by. Lance would stand at the window, watching the snow, listening to the wind. Then he'd send another text. Then he'd check Keith, who shifted often, sometimes muttering in his sleep though Lance couldn't understand him. Then Lance would try to find something to do to keep himself from thinking of his friends or the storm.

Where were they? Why wouldn't they answer him? Lance flipped on the small lamp on top of his dresser, casting more shadows than light into the room, but he could clearly see Keith's sleeping face, so that's all he really needed. At least one of them was peaceful through this.

Lance started the calming ritual of a sun salutation, but the rumble of thunder broke into the streamline of his forms and brought him back to the window. He could see the battling wind patterns over the lake. While he knew it would please Hunk and Pidge, and all their geoscience friends camped out at the Museum, he didn't care for it at all. It looked like the end of the world. As he stood there watching, lightning struck the lake, seeming to come from above and below the water, meeting in the middle, the shock of the broken sound barrier rippling away from it and shuddering into Lance's heart.

It's just thunder, he reminded himself. But even as he thought it he knew it didn't matter. He wasn't worried so much about the thunder. He was worried for the space that separated him from the Museum, for how close his friends were to the lake, for how deep the snow was already and how much of it was still falling fast. He didn't know exactly what he thought could happen to them. It's not like they were in actual danger. But there was just something about the early darkness, the lonely sound of the wind, the sudden peals of thunder, that made it so he couldn't help but worry.

The next strike of lightning had a strobe-like effect on the falling snow. Everything seemed to freeze in the light, all the snowflakes suspended as if time had stopped. An illusion, but a powerful one. And when the thunder followed, Lance actually jumped at its intensity. He texted Hunk again and started to pace to keep himself away from the window for a minute. What were they doing that they couldn't respond? Didn't they know how much it was bugging him?

"Are you ok?"

Lance startled, his whole system way too keyed up. What is your problem? He asked himself. Calm down. But then again, Keith had this weird ability to sneak up on Lance, even if he hadn't actually moved. Lance didn't even know when he'd woken up, didn't know how long he'd been watching him. He smoothed his hands down his hips, as if wiping anxiety off them, taking a deep breath as he went to the bedside.

"Just fine," Lance answered the question, forcing a smile. The last thing Keith needed was to start worrying about him. Keith had pushed himself semi-upright, turned toward Lance, his body twitching randomly with the rigors of the high fever. "How are you?" Seemed the more appropriate thing to find out.

Keith's expression darkened, and Lance could see he didn't want to answer. He didn't understand what was so hard about it, but he shrugged it off. He could guess how Keith was feeling just from looking at him anyway. He knew he felt cold, a very specific breed of chill that seems to come from inside and feels like you'll never be warm again, that his joints and muscles were shooting with sharp pain without warning. He likely had a pretty intense headache, though it would be nothing compared to the backache he'd have later as the illness progressed.

"Never mind," Lance absolved him from having to say anything, standing quickly. "But since you're awake, let's get you a drink."

"That's ok," Keith began, not wanting it. But this wasn't something Lance was going to compromise on. He was already on his way to the kitchen for fresh water and an ice pack, sort of glad to have something to do again even though Keith wasn't doing any better. He still appreciated having something to keep him away from the window or his phone.

"You need to keep hydrated," Lance called out as he walked through the apartment, amazed how relieved he was to not be alone in the space anymore, though he could hear the edge in his own voice, how he sounded rather frenzied, trying too hard. "You've been here more than seven hours and haven't needed to use the bathroom once, which means you definitely should have some water as often as possible."

He paused to consider his stock of medicine, then grabbed the Tylenol again. It may not be doing exactly what it was supposed to, but since Keith wasn't eating or drinking much and his heart was struggling, it would be easier on him than the NSAIDs Lance had at his disposal.

"Here," Lance said as he entered the bedroom, hands full of water, ice, and medicine but paused to flinch as a lightning flash cut into the room. Lance tried to ignore the look Keith gave him as he handed him the glass. "You've got a 15-hour window to urinate on your own before I haul you to the hospital for an IV," Lance threatened. "So drink up."

Thunder hit the apartment so hard it shook, and Lance actually dropped the bottle of Tylenol. Pull yourself together, he lectured himself, bending to retrieve it, thankful he hadn't opened it yet so at least he hadn't scattered two hundred little white pills everywhere.

"Uh . . . Lance?"

He stood straight, the Tylenol bottle secure in both hands. Keith hadn't ever said his name before. He had actually thought that he'd probably forgotten it. The water glass shook slightly in Keith's grip as he sat there without drinking anything, propped up sort of awkwardly on one arm, watching Lance with concern. It looked strange mixed with the discomfort already present on his face. Lance knelt at the bedside, fiddling with the childproof cap.

"They said there would be thundersnow tonight," Lance prattled as he struggled, trying to pretend that he hadn't just jumped out of his skin over a little thunder. "That's what they're doing, you know? They're over there at the Museum taking readings of the storm, figuring out I guess what atmospheric conditions should be to get this kind of thing." He flapped one hand behind him at the window, indicating what was going on outside. "Pretty crazy, isn't it? Lightning in a snowstorm."

Keith shifted, grimacing, pushing himself to a sitting position in order to free the hand he'd been braced on, which he then carefully and slowly rested against Lance's on top of the bottle. "Hold still," he entreated. Lance froze, more from Keith's hand than what he said, registering the heat and the shudder in the touch. "Is the storm bothering you or something?"

"Of course not," Lance dismissed, lying. "It's just thunder." In a blizzard. In the dark and cold. Completely burying the streets outside. Bolts of electricity through air that is full of frozen liquid conduit. "Take a drink," he reminded Keith, pulling out from under his hand, renewing his efforts with the cap, absolutely unable to hold still right now. Keith obediently lifted the glass to his mouth, but continued to stare disquietingly at Lance.

Another flash of light, bright enough that Lance was surprised it hadn't cracked the window, followed by more thunder. The short duration between the two indicated that the storm was right on top of them now. Lance's shoulders tightened automatically before he could stop them. Keith tilted his head at him, his eyes seeming entirely too large on his face. Lance needed to turn away, starting to pace again, fighting with the stubborn cap.

"Can you . . .can you stop? Why are you so afraid?" Keith asked him, the words a little sharp but the tone suggested that Keith was actually trying to be gentle. Lance heard his breathing change as he spoke. It was speeding up.

"Is that what you think? That I'm afraid? That's funny," Lance said, very quickly, succeeding at last in getting the Tylenol open so he could give Keith another dose. "Here, these are for you." Hopefully, this would be it. Lance did some mental math regarding how long Keith had slept the last time and gauged what time it would be before he might need more. He didn't want to medicate him too much. Keith took the pills, swallowing them without even looking at them, a gesture of trust that Lance barely registered.

Lance wasn't afraid of thunder, or lightning. He wasn't afraid of storms. Cuba had plenty of rainstorms, wilder than this, and Lance actually loved the feel and the sound. It was the cold that was doing this to him. The cold, the threat of the electricity turning off on them. Having no electricity was common in Cuba, it happened all the time, but no one was going to freeze to death there if it happened. It also really bothered him that if Hunk and Pidge were in any kind of trouble, there would be no way he could get to them. That's what he hated most, though his concern was manifesting strangely – making it look like he was scared of thunder, so what was Keith supposed to think? 

Lance took Keith's empty water glass, setting it safely to the side, pausing to look out at the snow swirling violently through the streets, across the lake. The thunder curled him over the desk, drumming his fingers against it. How long was this supposed to last?

"Lance?" Keith called him, voice weak, and he forcefully turned away from the window to see Keith reaching out to him. He looked frightened. He was panting. Lance had to get it together – Keith needed him. "Could . . . could you come here?"

"Sure, Lobito, what's up?" Lance asked him, still a little distracted by what was going on outside but doing his best to hide it, returning to where Keith hunched miserably on the bed. He had one hand against his chest now, like before, which pinned Lance's attention immediately when he noticed. In fact, he probably should have been paying more attention this entire time. He forcefully slowed himself down. "Is your heart racing again?"

"It's starting to," Keith admitted, gasping and scared, his flushed face beginning to pale as his heart demanded more of the blood supply to rush inward. The start of shock, a byproduct of arrhythmia.

"That's ok, you know what to do, right? Lie down," Lance instructed, not liking what he was seeing, feeling guilty. Keith shouldn't have had to call him over for help; he should have been there already. "Just relax."

"I can't; you're freaking me out." Oh. Lance hadn't thought of that, but he should have known. Patients need their doctors to be calm, and he was not doing so well at that. He could at least fake it a little better.

"I'm sorry," Lance apologized, kneeling again, compelling himself to chill out for Keith's sake. "Come on, put your head on the pillow. We'll calm down together, all right?" Keith shivered as Lance pulled his quilt over him, adjusting it over his shoulders as he lowered himself painfully back on the mattress, his color returning almost instantly as he put his circulatory system into a gravitationally neutral, horizontal line. Lance ran his hand up and down Keith's arm in what he hoped would be a soothing rhythm, something for his heart to copy, steady, slow, regular. "Is that better?"

"A little," Keith said, curling up into what seemed to be his natural recovery position, pulling his limbs to his core, some of the tightness leaving his jaw. "You?"

Lance was about to answer when thunder rattled every single one of his vertebrae, making him flinch, his hands convulsing around the fabric of the quilt. "God," he breathed automatically. He wished he could stop doing that, it was doing absolutely nothing to help and was actually making their situation worse, but it seemed to be out of his conscious control.

"Shh," Keith told him, sounding drowsy and breathless but no longer panting now that he was on his side, now that Lance was close to him. He fumbled out from under the quilt until he found Lance's hand, folding his fingers loosely over it. "It's ok." In that moment, Lance's heart almost broke open, full to bursting with how endearing this attempt at comfort had been even though Keith was suffering so much. He didn't think Keith knew how to be comforting. 

"I know," he responded, smiling at Keith though his eyes were closed now and he couldn't see it. "Everything's fine; we're safe. I know that."

"Then why are you all over the place?" Keith asked, holding him still at the bedside. Lance bowed his head, then decided to tell the truth. How could Keith ever open up to him if Lance didn't trust him first? Then again, the slur in Keith's question told him that he probably wouldn't remember any of this conversation in the morning anyway. Either way, there seemed to be no harm in telling him.

"I'm not really ok with blizzards," Lance confessed. "It doesn't snow at all where I grew up. Last year was my first actual winter. The power went out on us for a few hours and I have never been so cold inside a building in my entire life. I don't want to do that again. And I wasn't planning on Hunk and Pidge being out in it, or gone so long. And now they aren't answering my texts, and it's just getting worse and worse out there and . . . I know there's nothing wrong, that everything's going to be ok, but I just want the storm to stop, and I want you to feel better, and I want them to come home so I know they're safe."

"You're something else," Keith was struggling, trying hard to stay awake. Lance had heard that expression before; Hunk said it to Pidge when he was exasperated with her. He wasn't sure how Keith meant it. "But that makes sense, I guess." Lance smiled again, relieved that Keith wasn't judging him for his fear, that he seemed to be trying to help Lance feel better, safer. His hand still covered Lance's but it had relaxed to the point where Lance knew it was no longer a deliberate decision of Keith's to have it there. The fever and the drugs were pulling him back under, which was good, that was what they were intended to do, and he needed the respite. Even though it would leave Lance completely alone again. "You guys are really close, huh?"

"Yeah," Lance acknowledged, selfishly talking in hopes that Keith would stay awake for a few more minutes even though he could hear how hard it was for Keith to be present with him, to keep up the conversation. He pictured Hunk and Pidge in his mind, thinking of them so hard that he almost imagined he heard the door opening. "They're my college family. They mean a lot to me." Keith's hand tightened over his as he shuddered, a concerning little spasm. "How are you doing, Lobito?" Lance asked him gently, changing the subject, shifting his position so he could settle two fingers on the pulse point on Keith's wrist to analyze the speed and rhythm. Still too fast, but steady now at least.

"That's right," Keith said, his voice half-asleep already.

"Keith?" Lance checked, wondering at the not answer that didn't seem to have anything to do with anything they'd been talking about. Could he really never answer that question properly? He wished he wasn't like that. What was so hard about just saying if you were ok or not? Looks like Lance's attempt to admit weakness first hadn't really worked. Or maybe Keith was a little behind in the conversation and had missed the question? "Did you hear what I asked you? You doing ok?"

"What?" Keith asked, and Lance gave up. Keith wasn't trying to get out of answering; he was genuinely not hearing Lance anymore. He could see Keith was lethargic, exhausted, that he was having trouble concentrating as he drifted off. Trying to keep him interacting was getting cruel.

"Forget it," Lance sighed, resigning himself to how claustrophobic his bedroom was going to seem to him in the next couple minutes after Keith fell asleep again. "Just rest."

"It's just thunder," Keith murmured. "God, will you hold still?" Keith's hand tightened around his. Lance looked at him, bewildered. "Stop moving." He was holding still. He hadn't really moved for several minutes now. Concern tapped him urgently at the base of his spine.

"Keith? You still with me?" Lance shook him a little, getting worried.

"Can you close the window?" Keith told him, not opening his eyes, the words hardly discernible. "It's so cold."

"I know it feels that way," Lance responded, deliberately calm despite his unease, watching Keith closely, wondering if anything he was saying was getting through. "But it's not cold; your fever is getting worse. Which reminds me." Without moving his hand from under Keith's, Lance stretched backward to get the cold pack he'd left on his desk, feeling a little helpless, feeling like he needed to be doing something, feeling like the situation was getting out of control.

The pack was made of soft cotton, navy blue and printed with stars, fitted with a plastic screw cap so it could be filled with ice, and it fit comfortably in one hand. "You're going to hate this," he warned Keith, talking to him as if he were still a participant in this conversation, needing to narrate what he was doing even if he was the only one hearing it. "But we need to do something about your temperature since Tylenol doesn't seem to be working for you. I'm going to hold an ice pack on the back of your neck for a while to see if it'll help. It seems counterproductive, but trust me, the lower your temperature goes, the warmer you'll be."

When Keith didn't respond, Lance reached over his head as he lay there on his side, turned toward Lance, to press the ice bag against his neck. But Keith jerked as if touched with a white-hot brand the moment Lance placed it on his skin, grabbing at Lance with surprising strength and pulling him off, suddenly defensive. Lance paused, completely shocked. He knew the ice wouldn't feel all that great to Keith until his temperature came down a little, but this kind of reaction was pretty extreme.

"Don't," Keith pleaded, cringing away. "Don't hurt me. Please."

Lance felt pain in currents up and down his arms, not from Keith's grip but from his words, which confirmed something that Lance had suspected before but wasn't completely sure about. There was no questioning it now – the fever was bringing out the truth. Someone had hurt this boy. Badly. Probably over and over. He ached to do what Keith wanted, forget the ice pack, bury him in blankets, snuggle up tight against him, assure him as many times as he needed to hear it that he was safe here, that Lance would never hurt him, but he knew that would be the worst thing for him. His heart needed the break. Actually, all his internal organs would benefit from not slowly being turned into jerky from the heat and dehydration. The way he was raving right now just proved even more that his temperature needed to come down. Quickly.

"Keith," Lance reasoned, probably uselessly, but he had to try again. He had to promise him out loud that he was not a threat to him. "I'm not going to hurt you; I'd never do that. I'm trying to help. Your temperature is too high and not responding to medication. It won't be comfortable at first, but it will get better if you let me do this. You trust me, right?" Keith was shuddering in front of him, eyes open since the shock of feeling the ice on his neck but not really seeing anything, looking like he really did expect Lance to hurt him. Looking like he might not actually be looking at Lance anymore.

"Please wait," Keith begged, getting panicky, keeping a tight grasp on Lance's wrist so he couldn't come any closer to him with the ice, as if it were a weapon. Lance relaxed the muscles of his arm, leaving it limp in Keith's hand, trying to be as non-threatening as possible. "Just let me. . ."

Lance couldn't hear the storm outside anymore. There was suddenly nothing but the tone of Keith's voice, the wildness in his eyes. And even though Lance knew better, he knew he wasn't going to force it. Not when Keith was looking at him like that, sounding like that, terrified and desperate, not actually understanding what was going on. Lance knew that this suddenly had nothing at all to do with the ice pack.

"Ok, ok," Lance settled him, backing off. "Look, here, you take it. You do it yourself. Put it on the back of your neck, or under one of your arms or the small of your back. Put it anywhere you think you can handle it, it doesn't matter to me. You pick."

Lance dropped the bag, giving Keith the control of the situation, and Keith sort of broke down, collapsing into a weak sort of calm, releasing Lance's wrist. Lance could still feel his fingers clamped there, like the teeth of the dog. Keith, what did they do to you?

"It's ok, Keith," Lance repeated, soothingly, making himself small at the side of the bed, folding his arms over the mattress and lying his head down, closing his eyes, his heart breaking, trying to convince himself and Keith at the same time. "I'm sorry."

How was he supposed to help him? How had he thought that he'd be capable of helping him? He had no idea what he was doing anymore, and Keith kept throwing new horror at him all the time. "I'm so sorry, Keith." Sorry for thinking I could do something I can't. Sorry for everything that happened to you that made you like this. Sorry for all the things I thought about you when I had no idea who you even were. I am sorry. Lance had to stop talking, his throat had closed tight. The wind outside cried for them.

Something cold and soothing came to rest against his bruised cheek, which shook him alert again. He fought against his instinct to jerk upright, forcing himself not to move, but he did open his eyes to see Keith's face in front of his, both of them with their heads down, looking at each other. Keith had changed again, abruptly and without warning. Now he looked soft, almost concerned. Lance had never seen anyone so unpredictable before. He wondered what Keith was like when he wasn't so sick.

"What . . .what are you doing?" Lance asked him, drained at the back and forth of Keith's emotions, not sure how much longer he could keep up.

"You said I could pick," Keith returned, quiet again, sleepy, like the last few minutes had never happened, his hand trembling on the bag, a sensation that shuddered all the way through to Lance's jaw. The ice felt good on his injured cheek, but the cold seemed to sink into Lance's heart. Keith was starting to really freak him out. "What happened to your face? Who hit you?" What the hell?

Lance slipped out from under the ice pack, out from under Keith's hand. Instead he sat on the side of the bed again, staring down at Keith, monitoring him from a different angle, needing to get higher. This situation was way out of his comfort zone now.

"You did, Keith," Lance answered him, hoping he'd snap out of it. Please snap out of it; I don't have training for this.

"I did?" Keith said, sounding uncertain, his body completely boneless on the bed, prone and weighted. Lance put both hands on his chest, rubbing a little to keep Keith awake, genuinely afraid now.

"Do you not remember?" He pressed. "Keith, look at me – what's my name? Can you tell me that?"

"Lobito," Keith responded in a whisper after a long pause, eyes closing again, his head falling to the side. Lance drew a long breath, running through the protocol on where to go from here and came up with getting a temperature reading. He pulled the ear thermometer from his bag since Keith was either asleep or unconscious and probably couldn't hold anything under his tongue right this second. It wasn't quite as reliable, but it would do for now. Keith barely flinched as Lance took the reading – 103.5. Still going up.

Lance checked the time, a little after ten. Late, but maybe not too late? No, this was urgent. He needed some advice. Dr. Coran would be ok with it, even if he woke him up. Hadn't he given Lance his cell phone number just for stuff like this in the first place? Lance kept one hand on Keith's chest, over his heart, pulling out his phone with the other, taking a moment to notice that there were still no messages from Hunk, or Pidge, or Allura. He hoped the doctor would be a little more accessible.

"Lance?" Coran answered, not sounding as though Lance had woken him but confused nonetheless. Lance usually only called on Sunday afternoons or they communicated via text for shadow sessions at the hospital.

"Coran," Lance responded, gratitude and relief audible in his voice. "Hey, sorry to call so late."

"You sound like there's a reason," Coran soothed, his Australian accent relaxing Lance a little. It was the voice in Lance's head, the voice of experience and education. A voice he trusted. "What can I do for you, my boy?" Lance liked it when Coran called him that, so close to the _mijo_ that his uncles called him at home. He felt some of the crushing weight of responsibility for Keith lift off his shoulders.

"I'm looking after someone," Lance began, watching Keith intently, glad that his voice wasn't betraying quite how terrified he was right now. "And we're at the point where I'm not sure if it would be better to keep him here or call for an ambulance. Can I run his symptoms by you to get your opinion?"

"Certainly," Coran invited. "Go ahead."

So Lance told him everything he knew so far. The febrile seizure, the arrhythmia, the dehydration and delirium, the non-response to fever reducers, the rising temperature – the changes that had taken place in the hours that he'd been under Lance's supervision and treatment. The way Keith freaked out over tiny, strange things like backpacks, ice, phone calls. The way he looked a moment ago when he couldn't remember where Lance's bruise had come from, when he couldn't remember Lance's name. The way Keith was lying right this second, breathing fast, still as death.

"Well, that is a tough call," Coran said when Lance was finished. "He's definitely borderline. If it weren't the way it is outside right now, I'd say yes, go ahead and take him into the ER. However, I know for a fact that they have their hands full at the moment." Which meant that Keith would go through all the trauma of getting to the ER only to wait in triage for who knew how long until his symptoms got worse enough to be critical, or fatal. But if he stayed here and waited for the same thing to happen they might not have enough time to get him to the ER. But then again if he didn't have to go through the stress of getting to the ER, he might just improve and not need it. Lance hoped that Coran could give him a more definite answer.

"I don't want him waiting around in triage," Lance said out loud, and Coran hummed in the affirmative.

"Which is precisely what would happen if you take him now," he admitted. "The only thing they can do there that you aren't already doing is a fluid IV and an antipyretic. If it were anyone other than you looking after him, I'd say go anyway, but since I know what you're capable of, here's what I would recommend." Lance grabbed his notebook and pen to document what Coran was about to say.

"Keep him resting there as long as possible. I know delirium can be difficult to watch, but you're doing all the right things so far. The temperature tipping point is 104," Coran advised. "If his fever gets that high, call the ambulance. Keep waking him up, every hour, to replenish fluids – something with added electrolytes if you have it. If he won't rouse enough to drink, bring him in."

"Is that all?" Lance asked, wanting to be sure he had everything.

"No, one last thing," Coran finished. "Trust your judgment. You have the training. I can tell you care deeply about this person, and I can tell that it's upsetting the trust you usually have in yourself. Stick to your training; you know what you're doing. Remember the numbers, no matter how frightening the symptoms present themselves. I'll keep my phone nearby in case you need to call again. Don't worry about the time or waking me. I'd come sit with you right now if I thought I could get my car out of the snowbank it's buried under."

"Thanks, Coran," Lance said, feeling a little bit better about what to do going forward, secure knowing that he had a lifeline now, that he had a solid plan.

"Take it easy," Coran instructed. "You can do this. I'll be here."

They hung up and Lance sighed. He'd known all of that information before calling, but it was nice to hear confirmation from an actual MD. After writing a few final notes, Lance picked up the ice pack again as if it were a grenade. But, he reminded himself, it had already exploded. Gently, Lance lifted Keith's head, slipping the ice against his neck as he'd originally intended. Before it had blown up. Before Keith had spiraled down into some crazy PTSD psychosis. Keith moaned in his sleep, but didn't move. Lance wasn't sure if that was an improvement or not, but at least the ice was where he wanted it now.

"You are _not_ going to the ER," Lance promised him, remembering how Keith had tried to use the ice pack to help him at the end, that he'd attempted to ease Lance's pain with it, even though he couldn't remember who Lance even was. That counted for a whole lot, especially since Lance knew how delirium worked. It didn't make it any easier to watch, but he knew how it worked. It was basic instinct, all facts, logic, and whatever else that kept a person functioning in polite society stripped away. He'd just seen Keith's bare soul, boiled to the surface by the fever. Part of it was fear and violence, but not all. Part of it was kindness and compassion. "But what am I going to do with you?"

Lance set a timer on his phone to let him know when he should try and get Keith to wake up enough for another drink. Then he settled on the side of the bed, listening to the weather, listening to Keith breath, just looking at him, exhausted from what they'd been through already, knowing they still had a long way to go.

I can tell you care deeply about this person, Coran had said, but how could he tell? Lance didn't know anything about Keith except what he'd learned today, which wasn't much. So how could he care about him any more than he cared for any of the other people he'd looked after? He didn't understand why, but he knew it was true. There seemed to be more on the line than before. The stakes seemed higher for helping Keith. Like this was the most important thing he could be doing, like he actually might be responsible for saving a life here.

Keith moaned again, distressed even in his sleep, and Lance put his hand on his head in an effort to still him, wishing there were more he could do. He wasn't comfortable yet either. The storm was still fraying the edges of his nerves, and he was still wound up from talking to Keith earlier, from how he'd watched him fall apart, but he understood now that Keith was tuned into his emotions way more than anyone else he'd treated before, so he stayed where he was, forcing himself not to pace anymore, not to look out the window. He couldn't stop himself from startling when the thunder hit the room in waves, but at least that was softening, the time between strikes getting longer, the storm blowing away across the dark lake.

Before the timer rang for Keith, Lance's phone started playing an instrumental clip from "She Blinded Me With Science" – Pidge's ringtone, which she wasn't sure if she loved or loathed. Depended on the day.

"About time!" Lance whisper-shouted into the receiver. "Where the hell are you and what have you been doing for so long that you couldn't let me know?" It was kind of a relief that he didn't really have to watch his mouth with Pidge. She could handle every emotion he threw at her without taking it personally. Unlike Hunk. Or Keith actually, who had started shaking his head side to side, a little frantically, when Lance began talking. He'd have to alter his tone. He rubbed Keith's chest in smooth circles.

"Told you he'd be mad," Hunk said, his voice muffled by the distance from the phone. Why did they always put him on speaker?

"He's not mad; he's overprotective and panicking," Pidge told Hunk before putting the phone close to her mouth to actually speak to him. Lance wasn't sure he liked her assessment, however accurate it may be. "Sorry, Lance; Hunk forgot his charger, so his phone is dead, and I turned mine off so it wouldn't interfere with any of the equipment we were using. I'm guessing you sent Hunk twice as many messages as me?" 

"I didn't count them," Lance defended, trying to make it seem like he hadn't overreacted. "It doesn't matter; are you guys done? You coming home now?"

"Well, the storm's moving on, but the damage is pretty heavy. We can't really get the car out of the parking lot until maintenance comes in the morning to plow it, so a lot of the team is staying here for the night, looking through the data and we were thinking of doing that too. I guess we could walk home?" She said this last as if in question to Hunk, to see what he thought of that idea, whether or not it would be a requirement if they wanted to keep Lance happy. Lance looked toward the window, though he couldn't really see anything from his position on the bed. But he knew the snow was deep, and neither one of them had their boots. He knew they would do it for him if he asked them to, and that it wasn't all that far, really, less than half a mile, closer than the plasma donation center which he walked to and from almost every day. But he could tell that they hoped he wouldn't ask.

"You don't have to do that," Lance told her, trying to pretend like he wasn't disappointed that they'd be out all night, even though he knew it'd be safer for them to stay where they were rather than try to make it home at this point. "Stay warm and safe. But keep your phone on? Keep me updated?"

"Aren't you going to sleep?" Pidge asked, knowing how Lance liked to keep his schedules, even on a Friday night.

"Not yet," Lance answered, noticing that Keith was growing more restless as the conversation went on. His hands were clenching in the quilt, his whole body jerking at random. Come on, Lobito, just rest.

"Hey, Lance, you doing ok?" Hunk's voice, the tenderness in it making Lance's eyes sting with exhausted tears. Damn kindness. Got him every time. "You weren't that worried about us, were you?" Hunk, you have no idea. Worried isn't even the right word anymore.

"It got intense for a while," Lance admitted, leaving it at that. Keith took a weird breath, a little gasp, and Lance decided it would be best to get off the phone, even though he didn't want to. He wanted a couple more minutes. "I'm glad you guys are ok."

"It was epic," Pidge assured him, and Lance couldn't help but smile weakly. He waited expectantly for the two of them to geek out about the storm and their gadgets and what they'd seen or learned. He prepared himself to remember any words that he didn't know that still sounded important. He kept rubbing Keith's chest.

"We'll tell you all about it later, though," Hunk jumped in before Pidge got carried away. Because Hunk could always tell what was going on with Lance, whether Lance wanted him to or not. "How's your patient over there?"

"He's . . . ," Lance hesitated, not knowing how to answer that question. Then he remembered who he was talking to. "He's a lot worse than this afternoon."

"Worse than Pidge was?" Hunk asked. He gauged just about everything to that; it had really rattled him. Lance had a new appreciation for how he'd felt. Helpless and worried and responsible.

"Yeah," he confirmed, defeated.

"Good thing you brought him home then," Hunk's voice was encouraging, a thin layer on top of the concern. Lance had a sudden image of Keith lying in his own bed back in that tiny room. Lying there alone, like this, for all the long hours of the night. He heard himself make a little "huh" sound in acknowledgement to what Hunk had just said, not trusting his voice. He couldn't think of anything worse than that.

"Oh hey, Chris, wait a second," Pidge said, to someone over at the Museum. "Lance, we need to go. Will you be ok?"

"Sure," he said, trying to sound like he meant it. "I'll see you guys tomorrow."

"Hang in there, buddy," Hunk said in parting. "Try to get a little sleep."

"I will," Lance lied, knowing he absolutely would not be sleeping tonight.

Then they were gone and the room seemed darker all of a sudden. At least now Lance knew what happened, knew what they'd been doing, that they were just fine. He'd known that the whole time, but like talking with Dr. Coran, it just felt better to have the confirmation, though now he also knew for certain that they were not coming home at all tonight.

Keith was taking more quick breaths, one after the other without a break. It was almost a relief when Lance's timer went off, giving him permission to try and wake him up. He didn't want to disturb his rest, but this didn't really look very much like rest.

Lance successfully pulled Keith to a sitting position, making him coherent enough to swallow some water, even though he didn't truly wake. His eyes stayed closed; he didn't speak – his brain on fire and stealing most of his cognizance. Lance had to support him upright with one arm and hold the cup to his lips with the other. Somehow he did both without spilling anything on him.

"You were going to do this by yourself," he said disapprovingly to Keith, even though he couldn't hear him. "There's independence and then there's just stupidity, Lobito."

He lay him gently back on the mattress, leaving the blanket at his waist. Since he wasn't aware enough to protest, Lance wanted to keep him as cool as possible now. Lance refilled the cotton bag with more ice, replacing it under Keith's neck, making him whimper in his sleep. Lance made a note on his page. The time: 11 pm. Last water intake, approximately half a cup. Last temperature reading – holding at 103.5.

Keith seemed unable to hold still anymore, his body wracked by the pain of the fever. He turned his head, sometimes bringing one arm up to cover his face as if he were shielding it from some invisible threat. He twisted incessantly, uncomfortable.

"Shiro," he cried, his hand stretching out. Lance took it, holding it tight to his own chest.

"Shh, Keith," he begged, disturbed almost beyond endurance to be here watching this, not able to do much to help. Delirium is hard to witness, Coran had said.

"Please don't leave. Don't leave me here," Keith said, trapped in his own mind. "Can't I come with you? I promise I won't . . . Shiro, it's so cold." He ripped his hand out of Lance's grip, twisting to the side. "I swear I didn't touch him. Tell them, Shiro. I haven't even . . . please stop. Shiro, they're hurting me."

Lance was beginning to see that Shiro was a lot more important to Keith than he'd hinted at earlier. Who was he, though? And since he seemed to be the one that Keith wanted most, in the deepest part of his soul, why hadn't he wanted Lance to call him?

"Can they do that?" Keith went on, still seeing things, caught in the worst fever dream Lance had ever seen. "Shiro, wait, I can't . . . my heart hurts . . ." Lance grabbed Keith's wrist when he heard this, feeling the hard, intense pulse under his fingers. Not good.

"Keith," he called, hoping to somehow get through to him, leaning in to him as if that would help. "Calm down. Come on, come back to me now." But where ever he was, it was too far.

"Shiro, I didn't mean to," Keith went on, not hearing Lance at all. "I was trying to . . . you believe me, don't you?"

Lance looked around the room, desperate for something that might help shake Keith out of this. He caught sight of Keith's duffle bag and remembered the backpack inside it. Where Keith's phone probably was. Would that help though? Keith had told him not to call, but that had been before. When Keith could sit up on his own, when he could speak clearly. Lance's voice wasn't reaching him, but maybe Shiro's could?

"Get off," Keith was growling, thrashing against Lance now. Lance obeyed, even though the command hadn't been directed at him. He crossed the room to the duffle bag, pulling the backpack out from it. Was he really going to do this? Should he?

"I'll kill you," Keith hissed, and for a second Lance thought that he was talking to him. He almost dropped the bag, looking back where Keith writhed on the bed, panting, furious and terrified at the same time, oblivious to what Lance was doing. What on earth? Where had that come from?

English was so full of expressions. Some of them made no sense at all, like when Keith had told Lance that he was something else earlier. Some of them made sense, but the context was messed up. Kill was one of those. Lance heard Americans say the word kill way too casually all the time. I'd kill for a cheeseburger right now. If I don't get an A on this test, my dad is going to kill me. Jokes that were apparently funny enough to slay someone. Lance probably heard someone flippantly threaten death once a day, and none of it meant anything. This was the first time ever that he'd heard what that particular phrase sounded like when it was used in its literal translation. Keith wasn't aware of his surroundings, and Lance had no idea what he was experiencing in his mind, but he could tell from the chill in his blood when he said it, that Keith was being completely serious.

"K. . . keith?" Lance said, unnerved, but the moment was past.

"I'm so sorry," Keith was sobbing now, practically crippled with remorse, the last few seconds of violence just a flash like the lightning earlier. Lance returned his attention to the backpack, conflicted about whether or not he should open it. He'd promised he wouldn't. Keith had told him that Shiro was the one to contact in an emergency. "I didn't mean to, Shiro."

Lance carried the backpack with him, folding it in his arms as he sat on the edge of the bed. He put one hand on Keith's head, shushing him repeatedly, hoping it might be easier to calm him now that he was quieter, crying.

"Keith," he called again, bending over him. "Come on. Wake up."

"Shiro," Keith repeated, his main focus.

"I'll find him," Lance promised, reaching down for the backpack, not knowing what else to do. Yet even though he'd made the decision, his hands still hesitated on the zipper, knowing full well that if Keith were awake that he would not want him to do this. But if Keith were awake he wouldn't have to. He'd just about talked himself into it, the zipper moving slow as he pulled it, when he heard the front door to the apartment open.

He looked at Keith, who was still crying, but softer now, his body exhausted, and then hurried toward the living room where Hunk and Pidge were just turning on the lights, covered in melting snow. He'd never been so happy to see anyone in his entire life. Without a word, without letting her finish getting her arms out of her sleeves, Lance went to his knees in front of Pidge and grabbed her around the waist, resting his bruised cheek against the fresh, wet cold of her coat.

"Aww, Lance, is it that bad?" She asked him, softer than she usually spoke. He opened his mouth to answer her, but instead of words, he heard himself sob in relief. "Yeah, ok. It is."

By this time, Hunk had succeeded in getting out of his Carhartt and had come around to Lance's other side, reaching around his back to hug him too. "We're here," he assured, the words a comforting rumble against Lance's shoulders. He couldn't seem to stop crying. He couldn't seem to let go of Pidge. He hadn't known how much the night had been bothering him until just this moment, though he'd been told before that he was like this. He would power through hard situations, saving his breakdown for a more convenient time. Apparently that was now.

"Did . . did you walk?" Lance sniffed, calming down. Pidge was uncharacteristically running her fingers through his hair, though his embrace had gone long over her normal tolerance time.

"We hitched a ride with someone who had the common sense to park on the street," she answered. "The way you were talking, we thought we'd better come home."

"Thank you," Lance expressed his gratitude, feeling like he might burst into tears again. "I could really use your help."

**Author's Note: So, I meant for this story to be fluffy and sweet and cuddly, but as always, things are getting away from me a little (Keith, darling). This is going to be a lot longer than I thought. (Sorry? Maybe that's a good thing?)**


	6. Second Degree

**Author's Note: Sorry for the late update, friends. This chapter ended up shockingly different than I had intended, and a lot of what I had planned for this chapter is actually going to show up in the next chapter (how long is this going to be, Karin? You said it'd be quick – yeah, well, I always say it's going to be quick and then suddenly it's over 100,000 words. I don't know. I apparently only have one story setting – NOVEL).**

**But I also know for a fact that more than one of you likes for this kind of thing to be on the slow side. So let's keep it slow and enjoy it. And by slow, I mean slow in the story, not slow in the updating. Again, sorry about that. Please forgive me, enjoy the chapter, and maybe review. (Those glistening reviews – how I treasure them. Thank you so much!)**

**Chapter Six: Second Degree**

Lance's subconscious woke him at a quarter to seven in the morning, as he'd been conditioning it to do for years. It happened whether or not he set an alarm (though he always, always set the alarm just in case), with or without sunlight present, and without any regard to what time he'd gone to bed the previous evening. Lance's subconscious didn't care about any of that. The standard was set at fifteen minutes before seven, and so when that particular moment became the present, Lance lifted his head, his cheek throbbing because he had stupidly slept on it, as close as he was ever going to feel to being hungover.

He woke in a crumpled heap on his bedroom floor, wearing his teal green scrubs from yesterday and partially covered with the crocheted afghan that they usually kept on the back of the couch – another item in the apartment where no one was actually certain where it had come from, but no one bothered to move it. It wasn't the prettiest thing ever and it wasn't near long enough, but he gave it credit for being warm and snuggly.

Lance gathered his stiff limbs underneath him, then settled into child's pose, hips easing to the floor while his fingertips pushed forward, unkinking his skeleton before sitting up slowly and leaning back against his bed, going still after rearranging the afghan over his raised knees, just watching the color brighten in the room as the sun began its ascent over Lake Michigan. Apparently, the world had made plans to continue turning. The way last night had gone, Lance had begun to wonder if perhaps dawn had been canceled.

He stopped himself just in time from rubbing both hands over his face, switching to gingerly trying to scrub the sleep from his eyes with his fingertips instead since his cheek was already tender. He looked at the mess on his desk. Keith's water glass, his stethoscope, the bottle of Tylenol, one of Hunk's largest pots, half full with melted snow and floating Ziploc bags, a few wadded-up towels, some still soaked, and a wet patch on the carpet from where they'd been dripping off the desk. The part of Lance's brain that liked things settled properly in their places starting ringing a little alarm for him to fix all that as soon as possible. He ignored it.

Instead he turned over, rising to his knees so he could fold over his mattress. The position hurt, the ache of overuse. He'd been kneeling by the bedside for most of the night, and his muscles were telling him that they'd had enough of it. He ignored that too. He wanted to check on Keith.

There was a kind of magic in the hours of the early morning. Somehow, no matter how awful the night before had been, somehow the piece of night right before dawn and the first hour or so of sunlight had a stillness to them that encouraged the best rest. Keith's fever-ravaged body was taking full advantage of that time right now, lying comfortably quiet on his side, his fingers open in soft curls instead of gripped tight and trembling. He breathed faster than normal, but at least it was steady. Lance felt his heart soften a little at what a relief it was to hear Keith breathing like that. Automatically, Lance reached for the ear thermometer he'd placed on the floor, but grabbed his notebook instead. He didn't want to risk disturbing Keith right now. If he could sleep like this, he should just keep right on doing it for as long as possible. He flipped through his notes from last night, reviewing them now that things were quiet, now that he had time to think.

He didn't read for very long. He discovered after only a few entries that he couldn't. He didn't want to remember all of that just yet. Flipping to a clean page, he wrote the date at the top. A fresh start. He wrote the time and a description of how Keith looked, noting his reason for not getting any measurable stats. Then he picked up the wet towels from the desk and took them with him to the bathroom, seeing on his way that Pidge was zonked out on the couch and he could hear Hunk softly snoring behind his closed bedroom door. He'd have to be careful not to wake them either. They'd been right there with him most of last night and deserved the break.

Tossing the towels with a squelchy plop in the corner, Lance started the water running in the shower, hurrying out of his clothes and into its soothing heat, taking a few luxurious minutes to just lean against the tile, hanging his head into the spray. It felt so nice. He'd have to try and get Keith in here sometime today. Probably not a shower; he'd be too dizzy for that, but a long soak might sound good to him later. If he were still here.

Lance bowed his head lower, thinking about Keith.

It wasn't arrogance when Lance told people that he knew what he was doing. It was simple fact. He'd studied and practiced, reviewed and trained. He spent his free time reading medical books, following Dr. Coran at the hospital. Twice a month, he attended refresher courses with other first responders: volunteer firemen, the Coast Guard for the Lake Michigan sector, and members of the local Search and Rescue team. Every thirty days, he was required to ride a shift with the campus hospital ambulance in order to keep his EMT status. It wasn't like he had no experience in the field. There had even been a few instances where he'd not only been first on scene, he'd been the Incident Commander in Charge. And he exceled at it.

But Keith.

Lance knelt down in the shower, lacing his fingers together at the back of his neck, taking these private moments for the rest of that delayed, but expected, breakdown. Keith was so extreme. Keith was like nothing Lance had ever encountered before, and he couldn't even really explain why. He stared at Lance and made him shake inside his soul. When Keith cried in his sleep, Lance forgot everything he had ever learned about manually reducing body temperature. When Keith held his breath, Lance's breathing stopped right along with him, paralyzed and not knowing what to do – even though he knew perfectly well what to do!

He let himself watch it over again, from this side of the morning, knowing that Keith was resting easy right now, breathing steady and calm, no longer in danger. He let his mind debrief, sorting through the chaos. He remembered explaining to Hunk and Pidge about Keith's condition, about why he was being treated in Lance's bedroom instead of the hospital. He'd made it very clear that he was going to do all he could to keep him out of the hospital even though Keith's illness had done all it could to thwart him – holding Keith hostage just at the tipping point where Lance would have admitted they no longer had a choice. It had gotten personal to him, mostly because of the ice pack – Keith's fear, the way he had held on to Lance's shirt. Releasing him to the treatment of strangers, even ones more competent than himself, felt somehow like a betrayal of the trust Keith had placed in him. Lance hadn't known when Keith relented to coming home with him how precious a gesture that had really been, and even now he only had a hint.

In the end, Hunk and Pidge had brought him Ziploc bags full of snow from the balcony, wrapped in towels, and he'd placed them all around Keith. Under his arms, against the femoral arteries in his legs, at the small of his back and even across his chest and the pulse points on his wrists. By that point, Keith didn't even respond to the cold. By that point, he was breathing in a tortured sort of loop. He'd take a gasping breath in and then hold it, longer and longer he'd just hold it, before releasing it in an agonizing rush, followed by another gasp and a longer pause. It wasn't as though he'd stopped breathing, exactly, but it was so close, and his heartbeat was everywhere – like a trapped bird flown into a building by mistake and searching desperately for an exit. And in that hour, the hour between two and three in the morning, the mysterious hour that Lance had learned was the most likely to break a fever – that was the hour when Keith's had spiked to a dangerous 103.9.

Damn it, Keith.

He probably should have taken him in. He knew that now. But decisions like that were somehow so hard to make in the dark, tight, pressured space of his bedroom. He couldn't think outside of it. Couldn't think past the threshold, couldn't think two feet beyond the perimeter of the bed, couldn't think past counting the seconds until Keith took his next breath. And just when Hunk and Pidge were suggesting it, letting Lance know as gently as possible that it might be time to get more professional help, the snow did what it was supposed to do. Keith's breathing became less labored. His heart rate slowed, stopped jumping. The fever came down at last, and Keith started ranting again, as if his symptoms were working in reverse.

But oh, the things he'd said in that place. The sobbing. The visceral terror. The anguished begging. The violence.

Lance had perched protectively at his side doing his best to keep him still, stroking his face, holding his hand, speaking to him as if he could hear, while his friends stared at him, Hunk straddled backward on his desk chair, one of his legs bouncing at the stress, and Pidge clenched in a tight ball of anxiety on the floor, resting her head against Hunk's non-moving knee. Lance tried to make them understand that this was actually an improvement, even though it looked scarier than when Keith had been quiet. He tried to convince himself because Keith did not seem in the least bit improved – he was terrifying.

"What is he even saying?" Pidge couldn't help but ask, her voice shrill with the strain of listening to Keith as he cried out for someone to listen to him, believe him, pleading not to be left where ever he thought he was. "Shiro? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Is it even English?"

"It's a name," Lance replied, his voice a displaced sort of calm, like a thin layer of gilded paint on a tarnished and broken mirror, a façade. Incident Commander in Charge – pushing back the stress of that moment to a more convenient time when he could deal with it alone. He sounded hollow, but in control, though he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep it together either. Listening to Keith was ripping him up inside, making him forget what Coran had told him, his own heart as exhausted as Keith's but in a different way. But Pidge was looking at him, so was Hunk. Keith still needed him. So he took one more breath and stayed still one more second, speaking to Pidge evenly just to prove to himself that he could, knowing exactly how much she needed the comfort of his capability. "Shiro is someone he knows. I think it's his guardian. You don't have to stay, guys. I know it's hard to listen to. He's coming down now; I think I got him."

He encouraged them to get some rest; they'd been with him for over four hours now, and it was obviously getting to them. They hadn't asked to be mixed up with this. They'd been amazing to come and help him at all, but they had more than done enough and they were at their limit. Also, he didn't think that Keith would want them here, witness to this extremely vulnerable situation. He knew that Keith would not want anyone to see him like this, to hear anything he was saying right now.

"What about you, though?" Hunk asked, resistant to leave Lance alone, but obviously exhausted.

"You'll be in the next room," Lance pointed out. "If I need you, I can come get you."

"Except you won't," Pidge snapped at him, which was completely fair. Lance gave her a tired smile.

"You'd be surprised how much you give me just from knowing you're sleeping nearby," he told her, shocked that these simple words made her lower lip tremble, made her turn away from him. It had been a long night for all of them. She stood up, taking the few steps to him so she could wrap herself around his arm, leaning her head on his shoulder.

"You sure you'll be ok?" She checked. "Listening to him all alone here in the dark?" Lance returned his attention to Keith, his flushed face and tight jawline, understanding what she meant. She knew him well, knew what it would do to him. Hell, she'd just seen him fall apart when they came home earlier tonight, but that had been different. He really had been all alone then.

"If you're here, even if you're asleep, I'm not alone," he told her, meaning it. They had given him final words of promise and encouragement, but then they did what he asked and went to find their beds.

Lance turned off the water, finished with his shower, still on his knees. He knew when his friends had left to sleep, but his memories blurred after they had gone. Keith had grown quiet, the restful kind not the critical kind – his fever finally tamed back to 102.9. Lance had continued to rub his chest, speaking to him, telling him what a fighter he was, telling him he could relax now, "_descansa tu corazón, Lobito."_ Telling him he was safe. He kind of remembered getting the afghan from the couch, careful not to disturb Pidge, but the moment when he'd felt that Keith was stable enough for him to stop watching him, the time he had actually curled up on the floor next to the bed for just a few minutes of recovery that ended up with him falling asleep. . . . he couldn't remember that.

Keith hadn't moved when Lance made it back to his room, so he eased his dresser drawers open in tiny little fragments, just enough to snag his clothes. He dressed quickly and silently then headed toward the kitchen with Hunk's pot so he could pour the snow water down the sink. While he may have been able to move around Keith without waking him, the dull clatter of kitchen noises stirred Pidge as he set the pot down on the counter and began brewing coffee.

"Everything ok?" She murmured from the couch, voice still rough from sleep.

"Yeah," Lance assured in a low tone just loud enough to reach her. "He's resting right now. I think the worst is over."

"You should go back to sleep too," she chastened him, not knowing that just wasn't possible for him anymore. He was up, showered, and dressed for the day. He had to clean off his desk, force himself to review the notes from last night, contact Dr. Coran to let him know what had happened and where they were now, do some laundry to take care of all those wet towels. There was a quickly growing list of things that needed his attention.

"I will," he lied, hoping Pidge was still half-asleep and wouldn't call him out on it.

"How well do you know that guy?" Pidge asked out of nowhere. "You've never brought anyone home before."

"I don't know him at all," Lance confessed, surprising himself with how bitter he sounded about it. He kept talking to try and smooth it out. "We were assigned to do a project together for our English class, but I don't know anything about him except that he lives in one of those tiny rooms without a bathroom or a sink. It just made more sense to bring him here."

"And give him your bed?" Pidge pressed. Lance poured himself a cup of coffee though the pot was only half done, needing the caffeine and a way out of this conversation.

"Well the couch was already taken," he said, jokingly, but Pidge would hear what he was implying. Keith wasn't the first patient he'd brought to the apartment. _She_ had been. This wasn't that far out of the norm for him. Not . . .really. "Get some more sleep, Katie-bird," he instructed, taking his mug and heading back to his room.

"Wait. Lance?" Pidge stopped him as he walked past the couch. He didn't know why, but her simple questions were making him feel a little defensive. He knew she didn't mean them that way, so he forced himself to pause for her next one. "I was going to ask last night, but you were so upset and focused and everything was going on, and Hunk told me not to, so I didn't, but what the hell did you do to your face?" Lance covered the bruise automatically as she mentioned it, as if he could hide it now. He hadn't looked at it in the mirror this morning, but he imagined it was likely much darker than it had been yesterday. It hurt more too.

"Ha," he huffed, playing it cool. "You're going to have to wait for that one. That's a story that needs a dramatic reenactment to do it justice."

"Give me the movie trailer version, then," Pidge demanded, not distracted in the least. She'd obviously waited as long as she was going to on this, probably longer than she wanted. Lance turned his face away, even though his bruised side was already toward the kitchen, not the couch.

"I did something stupid," he answered her, switching his coffee mug to the other hand so he could ruffle her bedhead even more, as if that would scatter her thoughts and make her forget all about his face. It's not a big deal, he told her in his head. Just leave it alone.

"Lance, why won't you just –"

"I need to get back in there, ok? I'll tell you later, promise. Go back to sleep." Of course, he knew it wasn't an answer. He also knew it was suspicious as hell that he wasn't giving her one, but if he said anything else Pidge would know he was lying. Sometimes he wished that Pidge were a little more like her other scientist colleagues. The ones who could recite the coordinates for every visible star in the Milky Way but couldn't read a social cue if their life depended on it. But no, not Pidge. She was the kind of genius who could do both.

She scowled at him in exasperation as he passed her, and Lance knew the only thing saving him from having to explain himself was probably because Pidge was still sleepy and likely a little frightened to follow him into his bedroom. She liked the structural mechanics of a functioning human body, found them elegant and sophisticated, but only as words on paper and schematics. Not graphic pictures. Not in person. Last night had been hard on her; it was a solid testament to their friendship that she'd stayed with them as long as she had. Lance had only bought himself a temporary reprieve, though. You're going to have to tell them, he reminded himself as he tiptoed through his doorway. Eventually.

Keith slept on while Lance did what he could about straightening his desk. He texted Coran an update on the night. He realized that Allura had never sent him her email address. Who knew that a simple canceled date could make someone so angry? On the other hand, girls like Allura probably didn't have their dates cancel on them very often. Or at all. Not how he wanted her to remember him, but there was nothing to be done about that now. Maybe he'd have a chance to talk to her about it on Wednesday, after he'd connected her to the centrifuge and she had no choice but to sit there and listen to him. If she'd only known what happened here last night, she would forgive him. Lance hunched his shoulders forward, stretching his back, not fully capable of coming up with a lot of emotion for Allura. He just wasn't worried about it. He had bigger things going on right now.

For a little while, he stood at his window cuddling his coffee, watching the snow falling softly, astonished at how different it looked in the daylight. The sky and the lake had all but disappeared in the general whiteness of the low, foggy clouds, and even though the snow was still falling, big, fluffy flakes adding to the already impressive piles on the ground, it seemed peaceful and lazy this morning. Lance sipped his coffee, enjoying its warmth in his hand and down his throat. He very deliberately did not look at his notebook, even though he knew he should clean it up a little, put in order some of the scattered thoughts and scribblings of the night before. Three stories down, a snowplow cleared a path along South Stony Island Avenue, ruining the crisp, white perfection of the drifts. Lance breathed in the scent from his mug, sighing, then reached a hand out to pick up the notebook.

He'd just barely touched it when he heard Keith sneeze behind him, causing him to abandon the notebook completely. He had another difficult task to attend to. Setting his mug on the desk near the book, Lance turned to see Keith beginning to push himself up from the bed. Saw him shudder, look around in confusion at the unfamiliar place he was waking up in, then sink down, groaning.

"Hey, champ," Lance drew his attention to the fact that he was not alone in the room, keeping his voice chipper even though he was still pretty concerned. He wasn't sure what sort of mental state Keith would wake to, wasn't sure how much from last night he'd remember. Wondered how much of it he would have to tell him and how he was going to do that without falling apart. But one thing at a time; follow protocol. Keith twisted a little so he could look at him, disoriented, but not delirious. At least, he didn't think so. Lance chanced it coming closer, kneeling at the bedside again. "You know who I am today?"

Keith's eyes softened, some of the confusion clearing, though he now wore an expression that suggested he thought Lance was asking a strange question. "Yeah," he said, voice slow and deep, in a tone that told Lance that Keith was trying to humor him. He wasn't sure if that made him more or less worried. "You're my . . . my –" his face scrunched up and he quickly turned it into the pillow, sneezing again. Lance winced, blessing him, wondering what he'd been about to say. "Lance," Keith sighed tiredly, staring at him, giving up on whatever he'd started on. Lance smiled around the sudden warm ache in his chest, positive Keith didn't understand what he'd just said but liking it anyway. That's right, Lobito. I'm your Lance. Except I really don't deserve the trust in your eyes right now. He reached out to put his hand on Keith's face but hesitated, paused by memory.

"Can I touch you?" Lance asked for permission again even though he'd done nothing but touch him practically all night. After hearing some of the things Keith had whimpered in the dark, he thought he should. Every time. Keith nodded, a simple movement that meant a lot more to Lance this morning than it had yesterday. He rested his palm against Keith's forehead, frowning at the heat, leaning close when he heard Keith sigh again, wishing he were better at this. Wishing he could ease Keith more in return for all the faith Keith was giving him. He'd never wanted to heal someone more in his life. "Let's get some stats, huh?" Lance picked up the ear thermometer to get started on some data, though he wasn't pleased to see the reading. 103.1. For some reason, the numbers screwed in Lance's stomach like a low grade on a test, like he'd failed somehow, even though he knew that was ridiculous. He couldn't think like that, because he also knew that Keith had another long day of fighting this virus ahead of him, and Lance would have to help as much as possible, even if that meant taking him to get better treatment. He now understood that going over 103.5 would burn into Keith's mind, force him to see and say things that Lance really never wanted to hear again. He didn't think it was a good idea to treat him at home anymore.

"Still really high," he told Keith seriously, grabbing the notebook so he could write it down, deliberately flipping past the previous night without looking at it, like fast forwarding through the scariest part in a movie. But he couldn't keep doing that. Keith's face was full of question, and Lance knew he was still tuned in to his every movement, every expression on his face. "Keith, I don't know. You probably don't remember much from last night, do you?"

"What did I do?" Keith asked, suddenly fearful, his eyes conspicuously glued to Lance's bruised cheek, making Lance's heart twist. What makes you think you did anything, Lobito?

"You did great," Lance assured him quickly, wanting to make it clear that he'd done nothing wrong, sad that was the first thing he'd thought of. "You're such a fighter." Surprisingly, this statement did not have a positive effect on Keith. He turned away, tightening. Lance wasn't sure what he'd said, and he wasn't sure of the things he knew he needed to say.

He bought himself some time by helping Keith to sit up so he could listen to his breathing and his heartbeat. Both were moderately reassuring. Keith's lungs were clear; his heartrate fast but steady. Lance deliberated, remembering what Coran had said. He's definitely borderline. Lance just wasn't sure.

"What is it?" Keith asked, monitoring him closely. "You look mad."

"No," Lance denied, sitting facing Keith on the bed, removing his stethoscope. "I'm just thinking what we should do for you." Lance watched what his words did to Keith, consumed with sympathy. His statement was supposed to be concerned, thoughtful, but Keith's eyes were full of fear and oddly rejection – as if Lance had just vocalized a threat. He raised his hand to his head, breathing hard, and Lance could see what a struggle it was for him to stay sitting up like that. He took a moment to make a backrest out of the afghan and his pillow, arranging them against the wall, helping Keith shift backward and lean into it so he could rest his head but still be semi-upright.

"Keith, we need to talk, ok? I have some questions, and some of them are going to be difficult for you to answer, but we need to make a decision about where you should be."

"I don't . . . what do you mean?" Keith returned.

"You –" Lance paused. He knew that Keith had a hard time talking about what he was feeling, but he hadn't anticipated that he wouldn't be able to say it either. He reached over to hold Keith's hand, as if that could help them communicate. "You had a bad night, Lobito." He hesitated, knowing Keith needed more information. Where should he start? How much should he say?

"Lance," Keith still seemed scared, looking at Lance's hand covering his. "Why are you . . . What did I do?"

"You didn't do anything, Keith," Lance repeated, needing him to understand that his hesitation in talking about last night had nothing to do with anything Keith had done wrong and everything to do with Lance's mistake. Keith raised his head enough to look Lance in the eye, though it was impossible for Lance to maintain visual contact. The resignation was back, the knowing that Lance was lying to him, or at least that Keith thought Lance was lying. And that he'd been expecting it. Something Lance couldn't tolerate. Keith should never expect for Lance to lie to him. He was going to have to tell him. "But I did."

"What?" Keith was still obviously confused and no wonder. Lance knew he wasn't making a lot of sense.

"Your fever spiked to 103.9," Lance explained, starting as always with the statistics. The sure, solid facts. "You . . honestly, you scared me. I should have taken you to the hospital way before it got that bad. I should have taken you in when you didn't know me anymore, when you weren't coherent enough to even know where you were, but I didn't. I don't know why I thought . . . I guess I was just being arrogant? I don't know. It was the wrong choice. You were crying in your sleep for a while, saying all kinds of things, and then you were barely breathing anymore, and I just couldn't think. It's like I forgot that we could leave the room. My friends and I . . . oh my God, Keith, this sounds awful, I can't believe we did this. We packed you in snow to bring your temperature down. I really should have called an ambulance. I'm so sorry."

Lance kept his head down after his confession, not wanting to see Keith's face. He half expected Keith to tear his hand away from Lance and demand to leave. He wouldn't blame him at all. Lance had basically kidnapped him, bringing him home with him so he could what? So he could redeem himself from what he'd done at the end of their English class? So he could feel better about all the horrible things he'd thought about Keith before? So he could prove something? It wasn't fair, or right, and Keith was more than Lance could handle. He was too delicate, physically and emotionally, for Lance to pretend like he still knew what he was doing. He took a deep breath, needing to fill the silence. Why wasn't Keith saying anything?

"I can still take you there," Lance offered. "We can go; get you some better help."

"You want me to leave?" Keith asked, so softly, but the question echoed within Lance in various repetitions of what Keith had been saying all night. Don't leave me here. Can't I stay with you? Please. The sting of abandonment sharp in the words. How many times had someone left Keith? How many times had someone given up on him? This wasn't the same, though. Lance just didn't have the resources available.

"I thought you'd want to leave," Lance responded. "I really messed up. You could have died last night, Keith."

"But I didn't," Keith pointed out, making Lance feel sort of foolish. Well, obviously. "Because of you." Lance felt brave enough to look at Keith again, wondering how it had happened. How could anyone leave this boy behind or give up on him? Had Shiro done that? But why? Keith's eyes were full of gratitude and pleading. Lance couldn't believe it, but it was plainly there. He wanted to stay. "Thank you."

Lance held his breath to keep from crying. Keith, for heaven's sake. But he hadn't thought of it that way before. What would have happened to Keith if Lance hadn't dragged him home against his will? What if he'd stayed alone in his room last night? Lance closed both of his hands around Keith's now, bowing his head.

"Don't thank me yet," Lance heard himself say. "You're still very sick, and we might not have a choice about the hospital. I think we both want you to stay here, but we're going to have to keep your temperature below 103.5. I'm going to need your help doing that; I'll need you to answer some questions for me."

"O. . ok," Keith agreed, though he sounded overwhelmed and a little apprehensive. Lance knew that even if he were willing, he probably wouldn't be able to handle a general 'how are you doing' sort of request. Lance would have to be specific, ask for small amounts of information at a time.

"How is your heart?" Lance asked first. "You pushed it hard last night. Is it hurting today? Is it painful at all to breathe?"

"Not right now," Keith answered, encouraging Lance. That's it, Lobito. "It's just tight." Lance started taking notes, going back and forth with Keith, asking easy yes or no questions. Yes, his head hurt, and it made him dizzy to hold it up for even a few seconds. He wasn't congested despite how he'd woken up sneezing. He still felt cold. No, he was not hungry.

"I know, but you're going to need to eat something," Lance lectured gently. "Especially since I have to try some heavier medication with you today to see about getting that fever down. You'll need something in your stomach." Keith looked really uncomfortable about the idea of eating, enough that Lance thought he should ask about it. "What's up, Lobito? Are you nauseated? Is it that you think you'll throw up if you eat something?"

"No, not really." Ok. Then what? Lance couldn't think of a yes or no question for this.

"Um, Keith," Lance started, wondering how to persuade the information out of him.

"I'm just not hungry," Keith maintained, but then added in a rush, "and my mouth hurts." That was new. Wasn't it?

"Since when?" Lance asked. "Yesterday?"

"No," Keith sounded so pitiful, like his spirit was all twisted up inside having to answer all these questions. "Since I woke up." All right, so it was new, but not on Lance's list of normal flu symptoms. But that's just how Keith was. Something new, intense, and difficult at every turn.

"Let's check what's going on," Lance said, retrieving a flashlight from his medical bag, not missing the look Keith gave him as he turned back to the bed with it in his hand. "It's bigger on the inside," he said casually. No one was ever quite prepared for the sheer amount of random, useful things he kept in that bag. He had about twenty other jokes about it. The one he'd picked seemed to go over Keith's head, so Lance decided to just move on. He was feeling a little better now, in the daylight, with Keith actually talking to him. More like himself, the Lance that knew what was going on, that could handle whatever was thrown at him. Even Keith's newest mystery symptom. He twisted the flashlight on.

"Open as wide as you can," Lance instructed, aiming the beam as Keith complied. It took half a second to see the cause of Keith's mouth pain, but it took Lance another minute to figure out what happened. "Oh."

What most people call fever blisters have absolutely nothing at all to do with fevers and everything to do with the herpes simplex virus type 1. When Lance had learned about it, he'd wondered where the English terminology had come from. The HSV kind of blister presents outside the mouth, usually in a little cluster of fluid-filled sores – extremely contagious. The name had never made sense to Lance until right this second as he was looking into Keith's mouth, but even now he wondered how anyone had confused the HSV sore with this.

Keith's temperature had been so high for so long in the night that it had literally boiled the inside of his mouth and all down his throat. The soft tissues there were covered in second degree burns – fever blisters.

"Oh, Keith," Lance said again, knowing that was not the best way to let him know what was going on. But he had never seen this before. He didn't even know it was possible. "Go ahead and close your mouth."

"What is it?" Keith sounded worried, which was all Lance's fault. He put the flashlight back before answering.

"Burns," Lance explained, shocked, any ground he'd gained in feeling confident completely gone with this new discovery. "Your fever was so high it blistered your mouth and throat. It's going to be . . . it's going to be really painful for you. Lobito, are you sure I can't take you to the hospital?"

Keith had unconsciously raised his hand to cover his mouth. He hadn't answered yet when someone knocked on Lance's bedroom door, opening it slightly at the same time. A typical Hunk gesture.

"Hey, sorry," Hunk greeted and apologized in one, his voice low just in case someone might be sleeping. "Lance, everything ok in here? What's the status?" When he saw both Keith and Lance awake, he allowed himself all the way in. "Aw, hey, you're alive," he said to Keith. Lance didn't think he understood exactly how touch and go it had been as he listened to him saying it like that. But since he and Keith were in a verbal stalemate about hospital negotiations, he just let him continue.

"How are you doing, buddy?" Hunk asked Keith, genuinely concerned, talking to him as if they were best friends. Probably because Hunk had yet to meet someone who wasn't instantaneously his friend.

"Not so great," Keith answered, immediately and honestly, and Lance had to stare at him. What the hell? But then he remembered about Hunk. You'd almost have to make a delusional and extremely dedicated choice about not trusting Hunk. It was like he was made of sunlight or something. "But better. Thanks, you know, for helping me."

Hunk not only looked ready to continue helping, he looked ready to adopt him on the spot. Lance stood by, watching with interest, his arms folded. Maybe Hunk should talk Keith into the hospital stay.

"I did nothing," Hunk said modestly. "Lance is your man. He'll have you back to normal in no time." Lance looked at the floor, weirdly out of his element listening to this, not so certain he deserved the vote of confidence. "But I came to see if I could get you guys some breakfast . . .or maybe we should call it brunch, we all sort of slept in today." Keith covered his mouth again, involuntarily wincing.

"We were just talking about that," Lance brought himself back into the conversation.

"Great!" Hunk went on enthusiastically. "I was thinking oatmeal. Sound good?"

Keith looked pleadingly at Lance, begging him silently to let Hunk know what was going on, let him down easy about why Keith was not going to be eating anything. But he still needed to.

"Actually, Hunk," Lance said, noticing how Keith slumped in relief as he took over. "Keith's not going to be able to handle that." The smooth, no-need-to-chew texture of the oatmeal would be fine, but the temperature would not, and Lance wasn't about to suggest that Keith eat it cold. Yet.

"Okay," Hunk said, already brainstorming but having a hard time coming up with better invalid food than oatmeal. Lance was mentally searching their fridge and cabinets too.

"Got it," Lance snapped his fingers as he remembered something from yesterday. "Hunk, were you able to get ingredients for smoothies when you were grocery shopping?"

"Sure," Hunk answered, nodding slowly as he caught on to what Lance was thinking. "I had to get frozen mangoes, though."

"That's fine," Lance said, looking at Keith. "We'll try it," he told him. "If you can at least drink some calories and we can find a medication that will work, you can stay here."

"Breakfast smoothie – coming right up," Hunk acknowledged, turning to go.

"Don't put any citrus in it," Lance instructed before he left. "Nothing acidic, not even orange juice. Use yogurt and coconut milk. Oh, and spinach, please."

"Sure thing," Hunk said, giving a thumbs up as he closed the door. Keith did not look enthusiastic, but it was this or nothing.

"Hunk makes the best smoothies," Lance assured him. "Actually, Hunk makes the best everything. You should see what he can do with those awful packets of ramen noodles."

Keith leaned back into the little nest Lance had made against the wall for him, looking calm, but uncomfortable, tired even though he'd only just woke up. Lance returned to his position on the bed, wanting to stay close.

There was so much more he wanted to talk to Keith about, more from last night. He wanted to ask about Shiro, wanted to learn more about who he was, why he was so important to Keith. Why he felt so strongly about not contacting him. He wanted to ask who had hurt him and how. Basically, he really did want to learn more about his life. This wasn't just a biography assignment to him anymore.

And then there was the last thing Keith ranted about last night. Words Keith had growled after Hunk and Pidge had left. Words that almost made Lance call them back; it had scared him so much. Frightened him enough he didn't know if he could even ask about it. He wasn't sure he'd written those things in his notebook. It was part of the reason he hadn't really wanted to look. He hoped he hadn't recorded them in any way. He wanted to forget them. He wanted to have Keith confirm that he'd been completely out of his mind, that those things had no true basis in reality.

That had to be it. Lance looked at Keith, sitting there so still, so sick, and he knew it couldn't be real. But then he remembered the bruise on his cheek and felt the chill of uncertainty in his heart. He didn't really know anything.

He jumped when something touched his arm, still thinking about last night and not noticing that Keith had reached over to mildly cling to his sleeve cuff. He was beginning to like that, how Keith would hold on to his clothes, a timid, endearing request for reassurance.

"How are you feeling, Lobito?" He asked, just to hear Keith's voice when it was normal, when he wasn't delirious, pushing last night farther from his mind.

"Like I really don't want to move," Keith answered.

"You don't have to," Lance encouraged, pleased that he hadn't seemed to struggle as much with the answer this time. "In fact, it's a good idea if you don't."

"Yeah," Keith sighed. "But I remember someone threatening me about a 15-hour window and . . . I need to be sure I make it."

"Oh," Lance said, understanding, pleased that Keith had remembered him specifically saying those words, that he was in high enough spirits that he seemed to be actually playful about it, and that his kidneys were still working. "Yeah, you were getting close. Come on. I'll help you."

**Author's Note: Kind of intense, I know. It was Really Intense when my husband (my boyfriend back then) did this exact thing to me a long time ago. He showed up in Illinois from Idaho, surprised me with a visit (he actually kidnapped me to go back to Idaho with him, but that's a whole different novel). Anyway! He showed up at my house, and I was so excited to see him, but he was So Sick and tried to hide it all day. Then he pulled a Keith on me when the sun went down. I probably should have taken him to the hospital too. He'd do that breathing thing, mumbled incessantly, and in the morning, his mouth was covered in fever blisters too. He drank Pediasure all the long drive back to Idaho. I felt so bad for him.**

**He did NOT have the deep dark secrets that Keith seems to. Keith – you want to tell us about that? Soon maybe?**


	7. Bloodwork

**Author's Note: I've been reading this with my husband, who is an expert on all things me, and he pointed out that my normal imagery isn't here this time around. I asked him what he meant, and he had a hard time explaining it, but in the end I realized he's totally right. This work is . . . technical to me (there's a lot of emotion here too, but since Lance is such a systems oriented and medically minded guy, the normal whimsical image stuff I put into my work just . . isn't here. I hadn't noticed, but now it's all I can see. Now I've drawn all your attention to it . . maybe I shouldn't do that.) Love you Lance – almost as much as you love your lists. You know what else I love? You guys! You make my world go around.**

**Chapter Seven: Bloodwork**

With the wall on one side and Lance on the other, Keith was able to make it shakily down the hall to the apartment bathroom.

"No," he said to Lance before he'd even suggested that Keith not go in by himself.

"Are you serious?" Lance returned, nodding to their current position, the only gesture available to him since he needed both hands to help keep Keith upright. "You realize you didn't take a single step on your own to get here, right?"

"Then I'll crawl," Keith shot back, unwilling to yield, his voice many times stronger than his posture, completely serious. Lance didn't see what the big deal was, but he understood it was important to Keith. He had been forced to drop so many defenses to Lance already. He'd seen so much of Keith that he most certainly never shared with anyone – he needed this shred of dignity left alone if at all possible.

"Let me at least prop you up at the sink to get you close," Lance said, watching with worry as Keith clung to the doorframe to enter the room, tightening his grip on him to make sure he didn't topple over. "Take your time," he instructed firmly. "For heaven's sake,_ sit down_, and absolutely do not lock the door. I'll be right outside if you need help."

Keith turned his head just slightly as Lance practically draped him over the sink basin like a towel, giving Lance the tiniest half-smile and a raised eyebrow, looking strangely amused while Lance talked to him. "Ok," he agreed. "And did you want any in a cup or something, Doc?" He asked, sarcasm tinging his voice, and Lance felt instantly conflicted about being teased like this – an uncomfortable mix of relief, appreciation, and exasperation.

"Ha," Lance breathed, uneasily, not sure what to do with a Lobito who was joking with him when he couldn't get over how bad he looked, then paused to think about the offer a little more seriously. What sort of test would he do if he had a urine sample? Not much. What he actually needed was a swab test and maybe a blood draw. . . but urine? When he couldn't think of anything right away, he reluctantly let go of Keith, stepping backward into the hall. "Maybe next time," he said, closing the door against his better judgment.

He leaned anxiously against the wall, waiting, listening intently for sounds of disaster, like a body falling over and cracking its skull open on the side of the bathtub. Geeze, Keith, please don't do that. We've got enough to deal with as it is. He could hear Pidge and Hunk talking in the kitchen, the rumble of the blender, another plow outside. A phone ringing – not his. Not a whole lot coming from the bathroom, though. Nothing outside of the usual stuff. Running water. Maybe Keith was right to tease him. Maybe he was being a little over the top about it; he'd been accused of that before. Lance was just thinking about calling in to Keith, offering to bring him his toothbrush while he was in there since everything seemed to be going so well, when he heard a noise inside that did sound frighteningly close to something heavy hitting the floor.

"Keith!" Lance called, restraining himself from just dashing in since he knew Keith didn't want him to if it weren't absolutely necessary. Better wait a second and get some facts from out here first, just to make sure. It could have been something else. . . like . . no, there was nothing that sounded like that. Damn it, Keith. "You good in there?"

"No," came a grunted response, which oddly soothed Lance's soul a little. At least he was conscious.

Hunk appeared in the hall, smoothies in hand, looking bemused to find Lance standing by the bathroom door. "I might need your help," Lance told him, admiring how Hunk just rolled with that, processing the scene instantly. He slipped inside Lance's bedroom to set down their breakfasts so his hands would be free for whatever Lance might need him to do.

"Keith, I'm opening the door," Lance warned, pushing it carefully just in case Keith had somehow landed in front of it. Hunk waited patiently behind him as he assessed the scene. The faucet was still running, but Keith was crumpled on his side on the floor, eyes closed and hands against his chest, his heart obviously reacting to the physical strain of Keith being up and moving like it had yesterday when he'd followed Lance to his bedroom, upset about the phone call. Lance went to his knees beside him but did not try to move him. "Did you black out or just drop because you thought you were going to?"

"The second thing," Keith answered, breathless, taking one hand off his chest and reaching out toward the sound of Lance's voice, keeping his eyes closed.

"Smart choice," Lance congratulated him, stretching up so he could shut the water off before taking Keith's hand securely in his. I'm here, Lobito, you poor miserable thing. You should have let me help you. He pressed the fingers of his opposite hand against Keith's carotid artery in his neck, not surprised at all to find his heartrate up to full throttle. "Did you hurt yourself? Hit your head or anything like that?"

"No."

"Good, so we can just pay attention to your heart then. Breathe as slow and deep as you can."

"Lance?" Hunk asked, peering in worriedly from the doorway.

"It's ok," Lance assured, even though ok in this instance just meant not as bad as it could have been. The fact that Keith couldn't stand by himself long enough to even wash his hands was not good at all. "But he shouldn't move for little bit until his heart rate slows down. It's pretty stressed."

"What happened?" The commotion had drawn Pidge from the living room. Keith tried to sit up at the unfamiliar voice, but Lance eased him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Not yet, Lobito," he told him before answering Pidge, Incident Commander in Charge voice securely in place. "Just taking a break, Pidge," he said, trying to de-escalate the situation and calm everyone down – mostly Keith. "In fact – Hunk?"

"Yeah," Hunk acknowledged without Lance having to go on. It was getting cramped and tight in the bathroom with so many bodies staring at Keith from the hallway. It wasn't helping. "Pidge, will you help me with the sheets and stuff?"

"Um, ok," Pidge agreed, walking backward to start pulling apart her bed on the couch.

"Pass me those towels," Hunk nodded his chin to the wet pile in the corner, forcing Lance to let go of Keith to shift them into Hunk's hands.

"Thanks, Hunk," he said gratefully. For understanding. For doing the laundry. For breakfast. For being you.

"I'll be back in like five minutes," Hunk promised, knowing Lance would still need his help to get Keith off the floor. He disappeared with the towels to Lance's room to strip the sheets off the bed. Saturday was mandatory sheet-changing day anyway – Hunk's mom had drilled it into him and sometimes she even called to make sure it was happening - but Lance's rule was sick people get clean sheets every day, for extra hygiene and comfort reasons, and he didn't care how many quarters it took to keep it that way.

Lance returned his focus to Keith, who had sort of curled himself around Lance's hip. The hand Lance had let go of was now twisted in the hem of his long-sleeved Tshirt, wrist resting against the pocket of his jeans. "Well, Lobito," he sighed in the aftermath, letting his palm come to rest against Keith's forehead again. "You have officially lost your standing privileges." This statement brought a low growl of frustration out of Keith. "Yeah, I know, but it's better than cracking your head open if you fall down. Here, let's get more comfortable while we wait for Hunk."

Lance shifted them around a bit, leaning himself up against the bathtub, crossing his legs, and persuading Keith to lay his head down on top of his bent knee to help alleviate some strain on his neck muscles. "I hate this," Keith muttered as they moved, and Lance started running his fingers through his hair.

"It doesn't last forever," he soothed, wishing he could say something more encouraging. This illness had Keith held tight and didn't seem at all ready to let up anytime soon. In fact, he was impressed that it had taken this much to bring even this small complaint out of him. "You're doing great, Lobito, really."

"What does that mean?" Keith asked again, voice small and tired, young, and Lance smiled, relieved that things were settling, that Keith could focus on something besides his racing heart.

"It means I'm impressed with how well you're taking all of this, and you're going to be fine, even though I know it doesn't seem that way right now."

"No, I . . thanks? I mean . . .Lobito. What does that word mean? Why won't you tell me?"

"I could tell you. It's not a secret," Lance answered. "But I can only tell you once, so do you really want to know or –?"

"Never mind," Keith responded, making Lance smile wider, the warmth of affection spreading through his chest. Keith refusing Lance's offer to translate his nickname meant he secretly liked it, and liked that Lance wasn't telling him. He'd rather hoped that would be the case.

"Is this ok?" Lance asked, rubbing Keith's head a bit so he'd know what he meant. "Or did you want me to stop?"

"No. . . unless you want to." So Lance kept stroking his fingers through Keith's hair, watching as the movement would change how the light reflected off the strands. Keith's hair was the deep kind of black that was sort of iridescent. Like a raven's feathers. Lance hadn't noticed until just this second. Hair this color meant that his eyes should genetically be most likely black too, or deep brown. They weren't . . .but Lance still couldn't quite tell.

"Lance?" Pidge was back, his phone in one hand, but she stopped dead when she saw them not where she'd left them. Her eyebrows disappeared into her bangs for a second, but she shrugged it off, stepping lightly into the room. "Your phone was ringing. I didn't want you to miss a call from your mom or something." Lance left his hand in Keith's hair, accepting the phone with the other one. Lance's mom called him on Sunday mornings, before Mass, and even though Pidge had mistaken the day, she remembered how important taking the call would be to him.

"Thanks, Pidge," he told her, trying to puzzle her out. She looked nervously out of place all of a sudden in a space that she had assimilated into so much that they all sometimes forgot that she didn't live here with them all the time. It was a little edgy and weird. If he didn't already have his hands full, he'd probably be pushing both hands against her cheeks, pursing her lips out to try and make her laugh and call him an idiot. She looked so tense, eyeing Keith, still obviously disturbed from how he'd been last night.

"Hunk went downstairs with the laundry," she reported, shifting out of the room again in slow increments. "Did you need me for anything?"

"No, we'll just wait for Hunk and then probably move to the couch," Lance said, but was surprised by Keith trying to sit up again. "Take it easy," he warned him, but didn't prevent him this time. Keith kept himself braced on the floor with both hands, lifting his head to consider Pidge, who stared at him as if he really were a wolf.

"Sorry," Keith apologized, talking to Pidge, and it hit Lance suddenly that this was the first time he'd ever seen her. He was sitting up to try and be polite to her, to not be quite so vulnerable on the floor. "For . . ." but he seemed at a loss of what he should be sorry for, or maybe what he should start with, and the simple effort of sitting up had worn him out – he was out of breath again. Lance pulled at his shirt, encouraging him to lean against him for support if he wasn't comfortable lying down while Pidge was there, putting his arm around his trembling shoulders to tug him close and secure. He didn't make one tiny motion or sound of protest, just settled seamlessly against Lance, hot and shaking.

"Don't worry about it," Pidge saved him from having to say anything else. "We're all sort of used to Lance taking care of strays by now." Keith flinched a little at that, and so did Lance, who glared at her over Keith's head, which was resting against his chest. Come on, Pidge, be nice. You were there last night; you know how broken he is. Pidge softened, picking up on Lance's silent admonishment. She dropped to the floor so Keith wouldn't have to keep looking up at her.

"I'm a stray too," she told Keith, her voice free of the chill it had carried a second ago. Lance had never known she thought of herself that way. Hunk had been the one to bring her home at first. "My name's Katie, but everyone calls me Pidge courtesy of this guy here." She jerked her thumb at Lance.

"I'm Keith," he introduced himself quietly. "Which name should I . . ?"

"Pidge," she smiled. "Katie sounds weird to me now. Thanks a lot," she said this last to Lance, a little fiercely. He gave her a dismissive, unapologetic shrug. It wasn't his fault that Pidge fit her so well; he'd just started saying what everyone was already thinking. Even if they hadn't known that's what they were thinking.

"Thanks," Keith said. "Pidge."

"Yeah, well," Pidge stood up again, the sentiment of the situation starting to suffocate her. She hated getting emotional. "Hang in there. Lance will take care of you."

If Lance thought she could have handled it, he would have said something to her as she turned to go, but he knew better. She could take all his emotions when he threw them at her, but her own? Not so much. Once she was past the doorframe, Keith let himself back down to Lance's leg, spent. "So you do this a lot, huh?" He asked.

"Not a lot," Lance answered, feeling a little awkward about it now. "Mostly people come to me for first aid stuff – because they all know I'll have a bandaid or something for a headache and I'm good at popping shoulders back into joint or whatever, but I took care of Hunk and Pidge because what kind of roommate wouldn't? And then there was one of their Geoscience friends whose name I can't remember right this second, and the girl, Genevieve, down the hall. Her roommate came to get me at midnight all frantic but she wasn't in that bad of shape. And . . . it seems like there was just one more this year, but I'd need my notebook to tell you. . .but I usually go to them. I don't bring patients here except Pidge, but she practically lives here anyway." He was rambling, and he knew it, but he felt like he needed Keith to know that he was doing this for him, specifically, that Lance was making a special exception for him. But he didn't know exactly why he wanted him to understand that.

"But why you?" Keith continued with the questions. "Why do you do it?"

Lance had been asked this question before. You're so young; why are you so passionate about this? Do you ever do anything else? This was an answer he knew well. "Because I know how to help," he said without hesitation. "I hate seeing people in pain, so I learned how to fix it. And now that I know – how can I not help when someone needs it?"

"But then who takes care of you?" Keith asked softly, so serious and somber about it.

"Me?" Lance paused, wrapping his head around that, wondering why Keith sounded so solemn asking that. He'd never thought about it. "No one's really needed to . . .I don't get sick. There's this amazing little scientific miracle called a vaccine? Surprised you haven't heard of it."

He felt Keith wilt against him and thought maybe that had been too far trying to make a joke, or maybe he'd misunderstood the question. "I have help," Lance went on, softly. "I do have people to take care of me. I mean, so far so good on staying healthy, but you know, I couldn't do half the things I do if it weren't for Hunk and Pidge. Hunk cooks and does all sorts of errands and Pidge built me this computer so I wouldn't have to go to the library all the time to type things up. She's the one who tracked down your address so I could find you. And both of them came home last night to help me with you without a second thought and they pester me if they think I'm not doing so good taking care of myself . . . So yeah – they're watching out for me. And we'll watch out for you too."

"You asked her to find me?" Keith sounded so lost, like he couldn't understand why anyone would bother.

"You didn't look so good, and I was such a jerk to you and I'm not that way with anyone, ever. I wanted to apologize, and I wanted to make sure you were ok. I thought you might need some help."

"That's why you. . .?" Yes, Lobito. That's why I came. Not because of the assignment. I came to find you because I couldn't stop thinking about you. And now it seems you're all I can think about.

"That's why," he confirmed.

Keith sniffed, tightening up, exhausted, and Lance dropped the conversation to let him process what he'd just said, let the truth of it sink in for him, sad that something so simple as this would make him cry. He decided not to call attention to it so Keith would be less likely to try and stop; he simply kept stroking Keith's hair slowly and steadily, looking at his phone to see who had called him. Coran. "Keep resting, Lobito, while I return this call, ok? It's my doctor friend." Who I consulted last night without your knowledge or consent. Good thing Lance wasn't quite under all the obligations of HIPAA law. At least, not when he was out of uniform.

Receiving no response from Keith, and to be honest not expecting one, Lance dialed Coran's number, wondering what he wanted to talk about. He'd already sent him an update that Keith's fever was down a little this morning and he was lucid again. On the other hand, any advice from him would be very welcome. He still wasn't quite sure how he was going to keep Keith coherent today . . or rather, tonight. He hadn't even managed to get him breakfast yet.

"Lance, there you are," Coran picked up with a tone that suggested some urgency, but Coran was usually like that. "I thought I'd stop by your apartment before I went in to the hospital to see how you're all doing over there. I'm glad you got back with me before I ran out of time for that. Do you, by chance, have a diagnostics kit?"

"Um," Lance thought as he sorted through what Coran had just said. Had he ever had a diagnostics kit? They were sort of a controlled substance. He'd like to have one. Maybe two. Even though he had no way to do anything with them once he'd used them. At least, not legally. "Not here, no."

"No problem – I'll bring one. Remind me of your address. You're by the Museum if I'm not mistaken."

"Right across the street. Stony Island apartment building – that big brick box. We're apartment 316 – third floor; I'll come down to meet you."

"No need; you stay with your patient. I'll see you in, oh, say fifteen minutes or so."

He hung up before Lance could explain about needing a resident keycard to get into the building. Coran's mind was a brilliant, sparking place. He could pull out protocol and string it up like Christmas lights, all dazzling and gorgeous, but like many highly specialized geniuses the consequences for that kind of mind trick meant that he sometimes forgot important details – like keycards or whether or not he was actually wearing shoes. Lance wondered what the trade in clothing would be for remembering the diagnostics kit. Hopefully not his coat.

"Good news, Keith," Lance said, setting the phone down on the tile next to his hip. "My mentor is stopping by on his way in to the hospital to take a look at you."

Keith made a noncommitted grunt in reply and Lance wondered if he wasn't dozing off again. He hoped not because there was no way he was going to stay cramped and cross-legged on the bathroom floor. His back was already talking to him about the position. Fortunately, Hunk had returned from the laundry room downstairs and was ready to help Keith transition to the couch.

"Are we good to go?" Hunk asked, somehow being serious and lighthearted at the same time, reaching up to rest both fists at the top of the doorway, filling it completely with his broad-shouldered gentleness. Lance tested Keith's pulse, content that it was slow enough for a little more exertion.

"Come on, Keith," he said, shifting carefully out from under his head, supporting him with his hands back to a sitting position. "Easy does it, but we're going to the couch. It'll be more comfortable for you."

He could tell it was hard for Keith to stand; he was weak and shifting the elevation of his head made him pale rather alarmingly. He leaned against Lance, panting, as they made their way out of the bathroom and toward Hunk waiting in the hallway – just a few steps.

"Wow," Hunk breathed sympathetically as he watched them move, then reached for Keith. Lance had intended to support Keith between the two of them, but Hunk changed that plan. He slipped one arm around Keith's back and then simply swept him off the floor and into his arms, bridal style. Keith gasped, not used to being carried, especially like this.

"Now wait a second, Hunk," Lance protested, watching Keith as he tightened up in Hunk's arms in mental agony, but Hunk stopped him with a look.

"It's too tight," he explained, indicating the narrowness of the hallway. Hunk was already side stepping toward the living room. "This is easier." Lance wasn't completely convinced about that, but couldn't come up with a good argument in the few seconds where Hunk carried Keith to the living room.

Pidge was already there and had thoughtfully brought Lance's pillow, covered in a fresh case. As Hunk gently set Keith down lengthwise and facing the kitchen, she tucked it behind his shoulders, propping him up a bit against the armrest. Lance watched Keith's muscles release as soon as he was no longer being carried. He'd probably hated every second of that.

"What the hell?" Keith panted, looking hard at Hunk, who just shrugged.

"No big deal," Hunk dismissed what he'd just done, not understanding that while they were all definitely impressed by his ability, Keith's lack of control and warning about the situation had freaked him out. "It's not like you weigh anything."

"Hunk's on the rugby team," Lance explained. "I think they have him bench press small cars. However," he looked at Hunk. "Let's not do that again if we don't have to, yeah?"

"Sure," Hunk agreed, looking slightly confused now, like a mastiff who knows he's in trouble, he just can't figure out why. "Are you guys ok for a while?" He asked, thankfully changing the subject. "Pat from the Museum called me a little bit ago. He didn't let security tow my car, but he'd really like me to come pick it up as soon as I can get over there."

"I think we'll be ok," Lance said, still eyeing Keith as he adjusted his position on the couch, a startled raven smoothing his feathers. "Dr. Coran is coming over."

"Oh, that's good," Hunk acknowledged as Pidge reappeared in the living room again. This time with Hunk's smoothies he'd left in Lance's room. She pressed one against Lance's chest so he'd be forced to take it from her, then headed over to give Keith his – a little more politely.

"I'm walking over there with Hunk," Pidge let them all know, but Lance wasn't surprised. They spent every waking moment together, it seemed like, and he knew that it would drive Pidge nuts to be stuck in the apartment with just Lance and Keith. Mostly Keith. That she'd performed so many small acts of service for him this morning was mostly in respect for Lance. "We'll wait for your doctor downstairs to let him in before we go."

"Thanks so much, guys," Lance told them as they began tucking themselves into coats and hats. "Really."

They paused to give him twin glances of affection. They knew. And they remembered what he'd already done for them. They didn't mind so much the chance they had right now to pay him back a little.

"Text me if you need us to pick up something while we're out," Hunk said.

"I will – be careful." Because the only thing worse than being out in the snow was having to drive in it. Hopefully, most of Chicago was staying inside today. Lance was actually a little surprised that the Museum was even open considering the state of the roads this morning. Sure, the trains exhibit and the U-505 German submarine were particularly neat, but not enough for Lance to brave the elements for when he could just wait for a better day. He experienced an additional pang of thoughtfulness for Coran, who not only had to drive in to the hospital for his normal shift, but was going out of his way to come early and see Keith too. Because he was a good doctor and knew that things happened, illness, injury, babies being born – none of those things cared even the tiniest bit for what kind of weather was outside.

Lance's friends nodded good-bye from behind scarves and coats zipped to the throat and headed out, giving Lance a moment to at last take a drink from the glass Pidge had handed him, appreciating the chemist masterpiece of flavors that Hunk had decided on. He could taste the mango and the coconut milk, as expected, but there was also quite a bit of honey and Hunk had used the blueberry yogurt instead of the plain, and all in all, it was very soothing . . . although the spinach made it that shade of green that required quite a leap of faith to tip any into your mouth to find out how impressively delicious it was.

When he brought his head down again after a second swallow, he noticed Keith staring at him. That unique way of staring that Keith had, sorting out the logistics of the environment he'd been dropped into, wrapping his head around how the world worked within this apartment. It was kind of adorable.

"Try some," Lance nodded at the glass in his hand. "It looks gross, but it tastes good – promise."

Keith considered the glass as if wishing it would disappear. Lance thought he'd have to physically help him drink it like with the soup yesterday, but after a long contemplation, Keith brought it to his damaged mouth on his own. He winced as the cold liquid came into initial contact with the fever blisters, but he got a good three swallows in before taking a break. Bowing his head over the glass, he brought the back of his hand up against his mouth, recovering. Lance took a seat on the armrest at Keith's feet, watching him.

"I'm so sorry," Lance heard himself say out loud when he hadn't really intended to.

"You didn't do anything," Keith returned, a little fiercely. Then, looking ashamed, he tried taking another drink. "This is good," he admitted. And hopefully it'll do some good for you, thought Lance, thinking of the iron in the spinach, the sugar in the fruit, the coating of the honey over his throat, the cold combating his internal temperature. Lance felt momentarily overcome with the wish that Keith could just get over this. He wanted his suffering to be over, wanted to take his hand and take him out of the apartment, take a walk in the snow to the Museum with the others – show him the amazing train setup and the flight display. He didn't want to watch this anymore – feeling so powerless to do anything to help.

"So, um," Lance switched topics to distract himself, to let Keith know that he hadn't been offended by anything he'd said, knowing as frustrating as it was, this would take as long as it had to. Viruses are stupid little jerks that way. Besides, he hadn't asked Keith's permission about Coran and thought he'd better give him some advanced notice about what it would be like when he got there. "My friend, Dr. Coran, will be here in a few minutes, and I think you should be prepared. He can be . . ," he paused, trying to think of a good word for Coran that wouldn't put Keith's defenses up any more than they would be anyway. "He's Australian," he concluded, wondering if that would get the message across. Keith lifted an eyebrow, indicating that it did not.

"I mean," Lance tried to explain. "He doesn't have much of a filter – he just says things – whatever's in his head. I kind of like it; it's pretty efficient for when I'm tailing him on his rounds at the hospital, but some people find him to be a little . . . tiring? He's very nice, though, and he knows what he's doing."

"Why is he coming?" Keith asked, confused and already apprehensive. Yeah, Lance wasn't doing so well at easing him into this.

"I . . . well, I called him last night to get some advice," Lance confessed. "You were a little over my skill set. I didn't ask him to come, but I did tell him about your symptoms and he wants to check you out himself since you don't want me to admit you."

"But I'm –" Keith started, but couldn't finish. You're what, Lobito? Lance thought. Fine? Not even close.

"We're mostly worried about the arrhythmia," Lance told him. "Your flu symptoms are extreme too, but we really need to keep your heart in check." Lance decided not to tell him why, not yet, not if he didn't have to. He also didn't tell him that he was starting to doubt his flu diagnosis too. Hunk and Pidge had been sniffling, coughing, feverish disasters, but Keith didn't have anything like that. Which was actually a small favor wrapped around a big concern. There are so many scary things that start out as flu symptoms.

"This was supposed to help you relax," Lance said, forcing a laugh. "Guess I botched that, didn't I?" Keith gave him a look of long suffering, a look that said he just barely tolerated Lance and his friends doing all they did for him. He didn't want this, but he also knew he wasn't getting out of it now. "I know it makes you uncomfortable to be vulnerable like this in front of strangers." This statement gained him a look of intimidated surprise. Lance went on as if he hadn't noticed. "But Coran is quick and thorough. He'll likely only be here a few minutes, so please just keep breathing and it'll be over soon. Hopefully, he'll have a good idea to help you feel better that I've just overlooked or never knew."

Keith shook his head at that, but Lance didn't know what it meant. And he didn't have time to talk anymore since Coran had started knocking on the front door.

"It'll be fine," Lance promised, setting his glass on the coffee table so he could let Coran in to the apartment – all productive energy and ginger mustache. Coran always looked as though he were one second away from tossing on a poncho and a cowboy hat, leaping onto a horse, and galloping off somewhere adventurous. It conflicted sometimes with how still he could be as he studied something mundane like a piece of paper.

"Lance, my boy!" Coran greeted enthusiastically, making Lance melt a little inside like always. It felt so good sometimes to not be the highest medical authority in the room. "Good lord, son! What have you done to your face?"

Lance couldn't believe he'd forgotten to warn Coran about the bruise on his face – specifically the part where he didn't want him to mention it. That wasn't why he was here. He could _feel_ Keith flinch even though he was across the room and behind him.

"I thought I'd take up boxing," he tossed out, hoping to redirect Coran's attention as rapidly as possible. "But I'm pretty awful at it, so I don't think I'll keep it up."

"That's wise," Coran told him, still considering the bruise. "Your schedule is full enough, though if you wanted – I could help you spar a little. Used to be a bit of fighter myself back in the day."

"Crocodiles or kangaroos?" Lance joked, successfully shutting down all talk of boxing and bruises for the time being. Coran gave him a side eye, rotating his shoulders as if physically changing the subject.

"Who do we have here, then?" Coran asked, noticing Keith now. Lance noticed Keith too. He was putting on a brave face, but Lance could tell he was internally terrified. Taking pity, he went to his side, kneeling in front of the couch.

"Keith," Lance said, introducing them properly. "This is my friend and mentor, Dr. Coran. Coran, this is my," he took just the tiniest of pauses, "my friend, Keith."

"Sorry to meet you under the present circumstances," Coran said, setting down his bag, unbuttoning his coat to reveal his navy-blue scrubs, his ID badge already pinned to the breast pocket. "And for the last-minute notice, but Lance is worried about you and that means so am I. All right if I have a look at you – not as a doctor, mind, just as a friend of a friend who knows a thing or two?"

Keith looked at Lance, who nodded at him. It's ok, Lobito. Coran may be fiery, but it's a healthy sort. Lance rested a hand over Keith's, who immediately flipped his palm over to grip Lance tight.

"Ok," he agreed quietly.

"Wonderful. Take off your shirt," Coran instructed, opening the bag to remove his own stethoscope. Keith's hand jerked in Lance's, a very clear, "is he crazy?" on his face.

"It's fine," Lance whispered encouragingly, used to this. Keith, grudgingly, began pulling it off. Lance started to help him, but Coran had instructions for him too.

"Can I see his chart, Lance?" He asked, assuming correctly that Lance would have written down stats from the start of his care.

"Sure," Lance said, jumping up to do as he was told. "It's in my room. Be right back."

But as soon as he'd picked it up from his desk, he hesitated, taking some extra seconds to finally flip through to the data from last night. He wanted to see what he'd actually written there. There'd been several hours where he had taken a temperature reading every twenty minutes. Liquid intake ratios. Blood pressure. Oxygen level. And the notes on Keith's appearance, the sound of his held breath. The quotes of what he'd said. Lance felt cold remembering this, hearing Keith as if he were still in the bed next to him in the dark. On impulse, he tore that page out, crumpling it in his hand and throwing it into the waste basket next to the desk. It wasn't important for this. Coran didn't need to see that. No one did.

Lance grabbed his quilt off his bed, bundling it under his arm and striding with more confidence than he felt back to the couch. Keith needed him.

"Ah, yes, perfect," Coran welcomed him back. "Go ahead and drape that over his shoulders, won't you?"

Lance obediently handed over the notebook, open to the page Coran needed to start with, and went to wrap Keith up in the blanket. Coran had shifted him to a seated position, leaning slightly forward so he could listen to his heart and lungs from behind, and he was visibly shaking from the chill and the exertion. But even so, Lance couldn't help but pause – looking at Keith. The lumbar puncture scars were clear near the waistband of his pajama pants, but they weren't the only ones.

It was astonishing how much information a person's frame will give up about them to someone who knows how to look. With a few moments of consideration, and a little help from what Keith had said in his fever dream last night, Lance saw immediately that someone had put out cigarettes on Keith's back – his upper shoulders and the back of his neck - many times. No wonder he'd startled so badly when Lance put the ice pack there. The nerves in skin couldn't always tell the difference between extreme cold and heat. There was a weird puckering along his left bicep, a remnant of trauma but Lance couldn't tell what kind. He could see that Keith used to take care of his body. He'd worked out, probably a lot, but recently, possibly the last month or maybe a few more, he'd stopped doing that. It looked as though he'd stopped really eating much too. His vertebrae were extremely visible in a line down his back. Hunk was right; he probably didn't weigh much of anything.

Lance swallowed the sudden lump in his throat and shielded Keith in his quilt, covering his back and pulling it around, wrapping him completely and holding it closed, wishing the blanket could protect him from more than just cold. Coran paused in his reading, giving Lance a knowing look and a nod. He'd seen it too.

"Lance, you'll find the kit in my bag," Coran told him, thankfully giving him something to do. "Could you please do the blood draw for me?"

"Oh," Lance said, shaking his head to clear it of the images of Keith's back. "Of course."

"What?" Keith asked, lifting his head from where he'd been studying the coffee table, as if he'd decided to shrink his consciousness to just the wood patterns there so he could sit still through whatever Coran wanted to do to him. Seemed he drew the line at needles. The tough guys almost always did.

"I'd like to test you for anemia," Coran explained. "Lance and I can both see that you haven't been eating much lately. Lack of nutrients, combined with your current condition, could be the trigger for your heart irregularities, and if that's the case, I'd like to get you on a nutritional supplement as soon as possible. But the only way I can confirm is with a blood sample. And you'll want Lance to take it, trust me. He's better at it than I am. Young eyes, steady hands, all that."

"He's joking?" Keith asked hopefully, holding the blanket tightly closed around him. Lance wasn't sure which part he meant – the part where he needed the blood sample or the part where he wanted Lance to get it.

"It's ok; I work at the plasma donation center," Lance told him, keeping his voice easy, opening the diagnostics box and laying it out on the table so he wouldn't have to struggle with it in a minute. "I do this all the time; don't worry." He patted Keith gently on the shoulder as he went to get some BSI gloves, his eye protection, and wash his hands.

"But . . . seriously?" Keith sputtered.

"Lance is perfectly capable," Coran vouched for him. "I've been trying to get him clearance as the backup flight nurse, but the administrators insist that he has to be licensed first even though he could outdo our current flight nurse with one hand tied behind his back."

"Flight nurse?" Keith asked, his voice raising in pitch.

"The one who goes with the Life Flight helicopters," Lance answered, coming to his side again, goggles in place.

"Anyone and their aunt can get an IV line started in a still and quiet, well-lit room," Coran said. "It takes talent to do it in a moving helicopter with low light, lots of noise, and incredible pressure."

"Have you ever?" Keith asked, staring hard at Lance as he perched on the coffee table in front of him.

"In a helicopter? No. But I've placed thousands of needles and I have yet to collapse a vein. And this needle is actually smaller than the ones we use for donation. It'll be ok. I promise. I'll be gentle."

"That's not it," Keith muttered.

"I just want to help you, Keith," Lance told him, throwing all his concern into his voice. "We can do the swab test first if you want?" He looked behind him at Coran, who was standing slightly to the side, arms folded, monitoring the procedure. "You did want the swab test too, right?"

"Yes. I'm not entirely certain that we're looking at an influenza virus here. I'd like to check that too." Lance nodded, liking it when Coran's thoughts mirrored his own. It made him feel validated and clever.

"Just get it over with," Keith begged, slipping one arm out from behind the cover of the blanket. Lance scooted closer, grabbing his pillow and resting it on his knees, placing Keith's arm on top of it to keep it steady and then took a breath as he saw what he was up against.

For all he'd just bragged, and had Coran back him up, about his skills with needles and veins, he knew this wasn't going to be all that easy. Keith didn't have great veins for this, and they were shriveled from dehydration. It was going to be hard to get a good stick, and he only had the one needle. He had to get it right on the first try. He twisted the piece of elastic around Keith's bicep, to keep more blood in the arm and hopefully fill out the vein a little more. Then he pulled the cover off the iodine swab to clean the area with one hand while slipping two fingers of his other into Keith's limp grip.

"Squeeze and release for me," he instructed, eyes glued to Keith's arm where his antecubital vein was just barely visible to his trained gaze. "Ok."

"Lance?" Keith said, but seemed to not know what he wanted to say after that. Lance settled the tubes into his lap and prepped the needle apparatus.

"Don't move," he cautioned him, meeting his eyes, seeing the need for reassurance there. Seeing that it was all Keith could do to hold still as he'd been asked. "I'm not going to hurt you, Keith." There was trust and pain in Keith's expression, his lips tight. "Are you all right?"

"No," Keith whispered. "But go ahead." Lance felt as though their whole relationship thus far could be summed up in that tiny eight-word exchange.

"Make a fist and hold it. You're going to relax your fingers on the count of three." He expected Keith to turn his head at this point. Almost everyone did, even Allura didn't like watching the moment where the steel pierced through the skin, and she was practically a professional donator. But Keith kept his eyes just as fixed to the spot as Lance did.

"One," Lance lined up the needle with where he'd determined the vein was. "Two," he pressed his thumb against Keith's arm in an automatic, practiced gesture. "And three. Relax." Keith slowly released his fist, not moving his arm in any way as he'd been told, while Lance pushed the needle in and down. His hands and voice had been steady, but inwardly he breathed a deep sigh of relief when there was immediate backsplash against the cupping area for the tubes. Flight nurse, indeed. "Got it," he said, as if it had been easy. As if he hadn't been at all scared that he'd screw it up.

"Holy shit," Keith exhaled as Lance fitted the first tube, watching carefully as it filled.

"Yes, well done," complimented Coran, also sounding as if this was no big deal, though Lance wasn't sure that's what Keith meant. Lance pulled back the first tube to exchange it for the second, feeling the heat of Keith's blood as he held the vial in his palm. In a few more seconds, both tubes were full, and Lance reversed the entire process, settling a white gauze square over the needle, pressing it down as he pulled out.

"Keep pressure on this and lift your arm," he said, cleaning up the biohazards. The needle went into a plastic container, which went into a red, clearly marked sharps bag. The blood tubes were neatly labeled and packed tight and safe into the diagnostics box. The piece of elastic twisted off Keith's arm, and Lance lowered it to apply some tape to the gauze piece. Not a single drop of blood to be found on the white pillowcase. "Doing ok?" Lance checked Keith after it was all over.

"I didn't feel a thing," Keith said, sounding sort of spooked about it, though Lance took it as a compliment.

"That's always the goal," he replied, allowing himself to feel slightly cocky now that he'd succeeded, though inside his soul was shaking. It was harder to do things like that with Coran watching. With Keith not turning away. With only one needle and all that build up about how good he was supposed to be. He didn't want to hurt Keith, didn't want to hurt anyone, but especially not Keith. And he didn't want anyone else to either.

After all the drama getting blood, swabbing the back of Keith's blistered throat was nothing. In another few minutes, Lance had his gloves and goggles off, the box was packed securely into Coran's bag, and Keith was being encouraged to lean back and sip his smoothie some more as Coran did his finishing touches.

He began to ask them questions. How long had it been since the last arrhythmia occurrence? What had Keith been doing at the time? What was in the smoothie exactly? Was there anything else Keith could tell him? When had his symptoms started? Lance, what happened after three in the morning when the notes just stopped – skipping to seven am?

"I fell asleep," Lance said, guilty because he had actually fallen asleep and because he'd hidden part of the notes from Coran. But there was nothing important on that page. Keith deserved at least that privacy. Coran hesitated in his interrogation, as if realizing that he was semi-chastising Lance for getting less than four hours' worth of sleep, and only after Keith had been stabilized.

"All right, you two," Coran said briskly. "I'm going to run some tests and get back with you later. In the meantime, you keep resting as much as you can," he stared hard at Keith, but only for a moment. He returned his full attention to Lance. "I'd recommend benzocaine for his mouth – it'll help with the pain. Keep doing what you're doing – fluids, rest, notetaking. It seems he's holding steady right now, but if something changes, call me immediately."

He put an arm around Lance's shoulders, pushing him several steps away and speaking directly into his ear. "Watch his heart – I'm not happy about it, but it seems like there's no fluid build-up there yet. I'd like to get a chest X-ray and an ECG, but I don't want to move him unless we absolutely have to. It could still resolve on its own, so we're going to just watch for right now. Do you know what happened to him?" He asked in a whisper. Lance could only shake his head. "Well, keep him safe here with you as long possible. It looks like all of the injuries are old, but the signs of neglect are recent. For some reason, he's not being consistent with basic care. Make sure when he recovers that he's not going back to a dangerous situation – whether it comes from an outside source or if it's something he's doing to himself. Right?"

"Of course," Lance promised, hurting inside about it, not knowing what he could really do.

"You're doing very well, Lance, and it looks as though he trusts you quite a bit, so don't sound so unsure. I think you could very well be a source of hope for him. Is that something you're ok with? Being responsible for him?"

"Yes," Lance answered quickly. He found himself being more and more ok with that every minute.

"I thought so." Coran let him go, retrieving his coat and bag and moving toward the door.

"Lance will take excellent care of you," Coran assured Keith, who sat still on the couch, looking a little dazed. "But don't forget to take care of yourself, Lance," Coran said in parting.

"Thank you," Lance told him, hating how inadequate those words always seemed to him for how much gratitude he actually felt.

"Anytime," Coran responded, and disappeared behind the door, leaving Lance and Keith alone again. At the sound of the door closing, Keith looked up to meet Lance's eyes.

"Can I put my shirt back on now?" He asked, making Lance smile tiredly.

"Yeah, you can."

"And can you tell me what you were whispering about?" Oh, so he had been paying more attention than Lance had thought, but he wasn't sure he really wanted to know or talk about any of that. On the other hand, there were some things that Lance wanted to know, and if Keith had brought it up first, why not take the opportunity?

"He asked me if I knew what happened to you," Lance spoke before he really had decided if it were a good idea or not.

"What?" Keith asked, sounding like he regretted bringing it up now.

"You have burn scars on your shoulders, Keith. I'm not sure if you knew that? And you stopped whatever workout routine you had going and you aren't eating right or enough – at least for the past couple months." As he spoke, Lance drew closer, watching as his words shut Keith down. He pulled his shirt over his head and pulled his arms to his chest, staring at the coffee table again.

"How do you know that?" He asked.

"Because I've been trained to look," Lance said. "All EMTs are required to train on and legally obligated to report on signs of abuse and neglect." By the time he got to the part about being required to report, Keith was staring at him in panic. "But I'm not an EMT right now; I'm just your friend with EMT training, so you don't have to worry. I know you don't want to tell me anything, and I don't have any real right to ask, but can you at least tell me if you're safe right now? Is there something going on right now?"

"You have no idea," Keith muttered, but Lance thought he might.

"Was it Shiro?" Lance asked suddenly, amazed at his directness. "Did he hurt you, Keith? Is that why you don't want me to contact him?"

"No," Keith answered quickly and sharply. "No. He never . . .," but his throat tightened around whatever he was going to say. He covered his mouth with one hand, in every kind of possible pain.

"Are you sure I can't call him?" Lance asked gently, kneeling again at Keith's side, putting a hand on his knee. "You were asking for him last night. The whole night, Keith, you were begging for him. He's important to you. Don't you think he'd want to know where you are?"

"He doesn't care," Keith whispered, with the same conviction Lance saw in his eyes when he expected to be left behind, to be lied to. He truly believed it.

"Keith, how do you –"

"He doesn't care," he repeated, trying to sound forceful but just coming off wounded. "No one does."

"No, that's not true," Lance challenged. "Keith, no, that's not even fair. Can you look at me?" He did, reluctantly. "I care," Lance said, with force. "Coran – my roommates – we all care about what happens to you." And even though he could see that Keith didn't doubt him this time, he could also see that it didn't really help. Because this pain was tied to no one but Shiro, and so only Shiro could fix it. "So please, tell me, are you safe?"

"I don't know."

Lance took a deep breath, worried about this answer. What kind of trouble was Keith in? How could he protect him?

"Is there anything I can do to help you?"

"No." But Lance wasn't sure if that was the truth or just what Keith suspected was the truth. He was sitting hunched over, arms folded protectively around him. Very slowly, Lance shifted from the floor to the couch next to Keith, wanting to hold him, wanting to cradle him as Hunk had done with Pidge not too long ago. Wanted to promise him that everything would be ok. He wished they knew each other well enough that he could.

"Is this ok, or are you all touched out?" He asked, gauging how Keith reacted to him sitting so close. He'd had an exhausting morning. 

"It's fine," Keith answered.

"How's your heart? Does it hurt right now?"

"Kind of."

"Come here, then." He maneuvered them around on the couch, leaning back against the cushions and helping Keith lie down across his lap. He threw the quilt over him, covering his shoulder with his hand. He felt Keith sigh, felt his heat through his jeans. "Rest a bit." Lance leaned his head back, feeling the tightness in Keith relax in intervals, feeling him twitch as he drifted off, secure enough, at least in this moment, to fall asleep.

"What am I going to do with you?" Lance whispered. 

**Author's Note: So. Much. Emotion . .. guys. It's killing me to go so slow with this. There's SO MUCH I want you to know, but it's ok. We have time. (Right? No one's going anywhere? You're sticking with me to the bitter end?) My favorite bit of this chapter was writing that blood draw, OH and Pidge. And Hunk just picking Keith up . . .never mind, I loved a lot of this chapter. **


	8. Cognitive Dissonance

**Author's Note: I'm so sorry, everyone! I can't believe it's been almost three weeks since the last chapter. I don't know how time went so fast, or how I got so stuck on this one. It just wasn't flowing for me. Maybe because it's the tipping point? If you were worried about falling down a deep, dark hole with this story, this may be the last chapter for you. It's going to get a little intense after this bit of sweetness. **

**Chapter Eight: Cognitive Dissonance **

Lance woke to whispers, stirrings in the room, the not-quite-silent hush of his considerate roommates doing their best to be silent. He could feel more than hear the quiet rumble of Hunk, the fluted higher pitch that was Pidge, and closest of all, the slightly too-fast breathing of Keith underneath him. Shifting incrementally, Lance sat up, taking in how the apartment had changed, trying to guess how long he'd been out. It seemed he'd fallen asleep and then slumped over until his head was pillowed on Keith's not-so-soft hip. Meanwhile, Keith had curled up and flipped around so that he lay on his side, face toward Lance's stomach, elbows bent and hands holding to Lance's shirt. Lance didn't know how to feel about that. On the one hand, it was almost too damn sweet, but on the other, it made him sad. Especially since Keith's face was not exactly peaceful. His brow furrowed in discomfort. It looked as though his jaw were locked. His hands clung to Lance's shirt a little too hard. Carefully, Lance rested his palm on Keith's forehead, disappointed but not surprised to discover that he was still held tight in the grips of fever. Lance moved again, awkwardly, until he had one of Keith's wrists, taking count of his pulse. Still too fast and not quite as strong. Was his blood pressure lowering? Another anemia symptom. Or dehydration. Or maybe it was fine. It could be just because Keith was asleep, or the weird position they were in, or because Lance was thinking too hard about it.

Lance debated on what he should do here. Should he move and risk waking Keith up to take a real blood pressure reading? Listen to his heart again; check his temperature? Or should he remain where he was to make sure Keith rested undisturbed? Lance was biased toward moving. Now that he was awake, he was getting a little claustrophobic and desperate to shift out from under Keith, who was too hot and close on his lap.

As a distraction from feeling trapped and to procrastinate on having to decide what was the best course of action, Lance tipped his head up to see where his roommates were and what they were doing. He could smell Hunk's curry, which they were both eating at the table surrounded by all their electrical whatsits. They were making tiny adjustments between bites, whispering together in that distinctly comforting way that Lance loved best. As if nothing in the world were going on outside of their project. As if Lance weren't sleeping on top of a stranger a few feet away on the couch.

"I'm telling you," Hunk whispered as forcefully as possible without raising his voice. "It's the channel. We're not tuning in to the right frequency."

"It's two _hundred_ twenty miles above the earth, Hunk," Pidge hissed / whispered back. "The channel doesn't matter as much as the distance. What we need is a repeater. There's no way you're going to reach them without one."

"But we _are_ bouncing off the . . . oh hey, Lance," Hunk stopped mid-sentence though he kept his tone down as he noticed Lance awake and watching them. "Did we wake you up?"

"I don't think so," Lance replied mildly, shrugging his shoulders a little just to relieve some of the tension he was feeling. "This isn't the most comfortable napping position."

"Oh, I don't know," Pidge said teasingly, turning in her chair so he wouldn't miss the wicked smile on her face. "You look pretty cozy to me." Lance didn't respond to that out loud, but he screamed "really?" at her with an exaggerated head tilt. She'd been nothing but weird all day.

"So, how long have you guys been home?" Lance asked, fidgeting under Keith, changing the subject.

"An hour?" Hunk answered, looking to Pidge for confirmation, too innocent to pick up on what Lance and Pidge hadn't said. "Yeah, about an hour. We were back in my room until just a little while ago, but we got hungry. It's almost one," Hunk answered the next question before Lance asked it. So that meant Lance and Keith had been tangled up on this couch for a little over two hours. Lance inwardly groaned. He was getting tired of falling asleep in weird places and positions without even meaning to. But then he thought of Keith and reminded himself that cramped and stiff as he was, he was still way better off.

"Do you want some help getting out of there? You're all twitchy," Hunk offered, though how he was going to assist in getting Lance out from under Keith was a mystery. Maybe he thought he could just lift him completely in one quick swoop to let Lance out, though judging from the last time Hunk had picked Keith up without a warning, Lance didn't want him to even try it.

"No, it's fine. I'll figure it out," Lance declined, looking down at Keith's hands still fisted up in his shirt. He'd have to start there, somehow untangle all Keith's fingers. Maybe he should just take the shirt off? Yeah, that was probably easiest if he wanted Keith to stay asleep. Lance shimmied his shirt up his back, pulling it over his head so Keith could keep hold of it, feeling Pidge and Hunk staring at him curiously as he contorted out of the sleeves. He wouldn't be surprised at all to see Pidge with her phone aimed at him if he looked up.

"You want some curry?" Hunk asked, still forcefully casual about what was going on in front of him. Lance was now sitting shirtless under Keith, considering the best way to hold the pillow up, trying to mentally liquify all of his limbs so he could just pour himself off the couch.

"Um, no, thanks, Hunk," he whispered, only half-listening. There was too much heat in curry; it would be way too painful. Lance had both his hands under Keith's head now, elevating his pillow a few degrees at a time, tensing the muscles in his legs and back, beginning to twist toward the armrest, shoving himself against it as much as possible. Keith tightened, freezing Lance to the spot, but after pulling Lance's shirt tightly against his chest and practically burying his face into the fabric, Keith went still again. And then Lance let out the breath he'd been holding, relying on gravity more than anything to start pulling him toward the floor.

Using every yoga technique he knew about moving individual muscles, Lance rotated behind Keith's head, down on his knees beside the couch, and lowered the pillow with Keith on it into the place he'd been sitting. A few more steady, slow seconds as he brought his hands out from between the pillow and the couch cushion, and he was ready to stand up and walk away freely. He breathed a little "whew" of relief as he turned toward the table, where Pidge applauded him, tiny soundless claps.

"That was almost a Cirque du Soleil act," she said appreciatively, with only a trace of sarcasm.

"I'll add it to my resume," Lance told her, bowing without any real emotion, still groggy and frustrated, hunching toward the hallway. "Be right back – I need to get another shirt."

He took his time, checking the snow out his window, then using the bathroom, wetting a washcloth with hot water and holding it against his face, pressed against his eyes. His bruise had darkened to the deep purple black of its highest trauma, all the blood clots raised to the surface, which meant he should switch from ice packs to heat in the hopes to break them up and dissipate them faster. He couldn't imagine how charming it would look when the skin faded to yellow and green in a couple more days. He languidly breathed the warm, humid soapy scent from the cloth, thinking. Hunk and Pidge would probably have questions for him when he went back into the living room, so he stood there in front of the bathroom mirror for a few more minutes, mentally preparing himself for whatever they might want to know. He also wanted to think a second about Pidge's teasing grin and what she'd said about Lance sleeping with Keith on his lap. It bothered him more than he wanted it to.

He wasn't sure how to get her to understand that there had been nothing cozy about that position. He'd initiated it from a place of unease, shaky trust, and more than a little fear. He'd been calming a fevered wolf, not holding a lover. Keith had needed reassurance; he'd been upset by their conversation, by Dr. Coran's visit. He needed to keep his head down. Lance needed to stay near him, to monitor him as he fell asleep, to make sure his heart rhythm stayed regular. Pidge had probably forgotten how much physical touch is involved in taking care of someone – how much time she had spent in Hunk's lap, how she'd needed his arms around her almost constantly. She'd probably snap at Lance if he brought it up; no one wanted to think about it, even if Lance did have a point he wanted proven. He'd had to keep his hands on Keith, his fingertips on his pulse as part of his treatment. There was nothing more to it.

Lance gave himself a questioning look in the mirror, surprised again how defensive he felt at something Pidge had innocently said. There really wasn't anything more to it, was there? No. He didn't know anything about Keith; it was impossible. Concern was a neighbor to affection, but they weren't the same thing. Lance was worried about Keith, that's all. He was curious about Keith because honestly, how could a sane person spend any amount of time with Keith and _not_ be curious about him? He looked at the bruise again, touched it carefully with the back of his hand, remembering how it got there and who gave it to him. Remembered the scars on Keith's back, remembered what he'd said, remembered that Keith probably wouldn't even allow them to be close after this was all over. The best thing to do would be get him well and get on with their lives – as he'd done with Genevieve down the hall, and the other two patients he'd helped whose names would no longer come to him. Getting any more involved with Keith might not be the healthiest choice. But he'd asked not to be left alone. He kept holding to Lance's clothes.

His reflection shook his head at him as he bowed over the sink, disturbed and conflicted, hands on either side of the basin. He decided to reschedule this inner dialogue for a better time. When Keith was well. When Keith was out of trouble. When Lance had more data. Then he'd reassess his feelings and what Pidge believed they might be. In the meantime, he had plenty of other things to do.

Keith slept on, still not as peaceful as Lance hoped, but at least quietly. He resisted the urge to touch him, feeling Pidge's eyes on his back and forcefully turning toward the table, taking the chair between his friends where he could still keep an eye on Keith. They pulled their attention from the NASA website on Pidge's tiny, homebuilt laptop to welcome him back. And as Lance expected, to ask him questions. He pulled his legs underneath him, sitting cross-legged on the chair, and got ready to answer everything they threw at him. After all they'd done for him yesterday and today, they more than deserved any information they wanted. Almost.

"So what'd Dr. Coran say?" Hunk asked first. An easy question, really, a relief, but since Keith's full diagnosis was still unknown, it rattled Lance a little anyway. Not a good sign this early in the conversation.

"He took some samples with him to test for a couple things," Lance answered, folding his arms on the table top, looking at the electrical debris in front of him, wondering how quickly he could turn the topic over to what they'd been up to while he'd been sleeping. "He's going to call us later when he knows more."

"Testing for what?" Pidge wanted to know, perceptive. "I thought he had the flu?"

"He does," Lance answered, reaching forward to poke at some of the wires. "I mean, we're pretty sure he does, but there's something going on with his heart that is more typical for anemia. So we're testing the iron level in his blood." He paused to check his friends, remembering that sometimes he got off on medical tangents that they couldn't keep up with, using words they didn't know. They did it to him too, so it wasn't a huge deal, but he wanted to make sure they were still with him.

"And . . . last night? What'd he say about last night?" Pidge continued the interrogation, making Lance jump a little bit before he remembered that Pidge hadn't been there for all of last night. She'd missed the really messy stuff. "Was any of that even true?"

I really hope not, Lance thought, but couldn't say that out loud.

"Maybe," he said instead. "It's really impossible to tell without going over it all with Keith, but I'm not doing that. He was delirious; he had no idea what he was saying, so I don't think it matters much what's true and what's not. It's none of our business, so I think we should just forget about it." Oh how he'd like to.

"What if it happens again?" Pidge continued with the questions that Lance was very deliberately not asking himself.

"It won't," Lance almost snapped, turning his face and his bruise away from her, noticing Keith shifting out of the corner of his eye, responding to the sound but not waking. He needed to lower his voice. "Not if I can keep his fever down."

"Wouldn't he be better off at the hospital? Did that not even come up?" Pidge was staring hard at Lance now. He could tell though he wasn't looking at her. He was watching Hunk nervously twisting wires together, a physical manifestation of how it probably felt for Hunk to sit and listen to Pidge and Lance talk like this. Hunk always liked everyone on the same page; this was disturbing him. "It's just - I don't think I can scoop more snow into Ziplocs tonight."

"You won't have to," Lance replied, his voice quiet but his tone too harsh, immediately hurt and almost angry at Pidge. She thought she'd had it bad last night? What about Keith? He'd been the one really suffering. "You won't have to do anything. Either of you. I brought him here; he's my responsibility. I'm sorry it's ruining your weekend, but he had no one else and that doesn't work for me. Thanks for your help. I won't ask for it again."

"Lance, chill," Pidge soothed, though she sounded a little mechanical to him. "Don't get so defensive. It's not ruining my weekend; it's ruining _you_." Now Lance did pause to look at her, feeling challenged. "I'll be the first one to say that you do great things, and you know a hell of a lot, but you're not a doctor yet, remember? He's actually not your responsibility. You're really sweet to help him out, but you said yourself that you don't even know him. And I'm just saying that a repeat of last night is going to be too hard for _all of us_, and that includes Keith. I thought for sure that your doctor friend would have taken Keith in to the hospital with him. It seems like a better option to me."

Well of course it seemed a better option to her. She was thinking with her head only. If Lance were to read about Keith in a case file, he'd say the exact same thing. He'd thought it was the right choice this morning too. The hospital could provide tests and medications that Lance simply didn't have here. But they couldn't provide the warm quiet that his apartment had. The smell of the curry. The special weight of Lance's mom's quilt. The soft sounds of people just going about their business, a calming background reassurance. And for Keith, who had been raised in a cold system, who stared with wonder at simple things like mugs of homemade soup and shed actual tears about food that tasted good . . . who was so bewildered by Lance for being nice to him . . who was developing trust in a way that Lance could measure by how often and how tightly he held onto Lance's clothes – now that Lance had that information . . .

"On paper, it looks that way," Lance allowed, his tone softened, speaking delicately. "But I actually think it would be a step backward in his recovery if we were to send him away at this point. It would be like we gave up on him, and you heard him last night."

"You're saying we should keep him here, without proper medical care, because he has abandonment issues?" Pidge checked him, her restatement making it sound so ridiculous that Lance paused to rethink it himself before he remembered that even Coran had agreed it was best.

"Exactly," Lance said, obviously not the answer Pidge was expecting judging from her expression. "But I'm not ruling it out," he added. "I'm going to do all I can for him, but you're right; we can't do another round like last night. That won't be in anyone's best interests."

Pidge shrugged, a quasi-agreement, though she still looked skeptical.

"So now that _that's_ settled," Hunk broke in hurriedly, springing on the first chance he saw to switch topics, eager to create harmony between them again. "Lance, how'd your date go yesterday?"

At first, Lance didn't understand what Hunk was even asking. What date? But then he remembered Allura and how the last Hunk knew, he'd still been planning to meet with her at the library.

"Oh, right," Lance heard himself whisper, feeling his shoulders droop.

"Right, so where'd you go? Was she interested? Are you seeing her again?" Hunk wanted all the details. Except the actual details were so disappointing.

"Was it bad?" Pidge asked, gentle now, reading his body language outside of Hunk's enthusiasm, seeing the real picture. "Did she ghost you?"

"No, she was ready, but . . . I didn't go," Lance confessed. "I couldn't leave Keith."

"But you called her, right?" Pidge said, nodding at him, sounding like his mother all of a sudden, anxious that he'd minded his manners and treated Allura properly. "You let her know what was going on?"

"I did," Lance defended himself, sinking lower into his chair. This day was proving to be almost miserable. He felt trapped in a never-ending string of disappointment and waiting and scenarios he couldn't fix. "She thought I was lying to her. She was pretty mad, so no, I don't think I'll be seeing her . . . ever."

"Lying?" Hunk repeated, as if the word were new to him, sounding hurt. "You?" Pidge moved around the table to place her hands against Hunk's back, as if he were more disheartened about this than Lance was.

"Sounds like you dodged a bullet, then," Pidge told him. "If she can't handle a cancellation due to medical emergency then you guys were sure to fail." Lance lifted his head a little. He'd never thought of it like that, but Pidge had a point. Anyone Lance dated would have to understand that he could be called away at a moment's notice for something. There were probably hundreds of cancelations in his future thanks to the career he'd chosen. Come to think of it, all the doctors he truly admired lived alone. Maybe because there was no such person who could handle it, who could just have him walk away from a date or miss an important event, especially long-term. Maybe if he continued in this field, he'd never find someone understanding enough to stay with him in it.

He looked at Pidge and Hunk, his brilliant friends who always seemed to be with him no matter what, thinking how special that was, how any day they were probably going to receive an acceptance letter, and he felt a little nauseated and empty and cold. He wanted to be a doctor, wanted it more than anything. At least, he thought he wanted it more than anything. Now he wasn't sure he could do it. Not if it meant he had to be alone.

"Hey, Lance, don't worry about her," Pidge said, calling him back from visualizing his future that somehow seemed darker to him all of a sudden. But he wasn't worried about Allura anymore; he had so many bigger problems looming over him. "She doesn't deserve you anyway."

Lance allowed himself a tiny smile, more to show Pidge that he appreciated what she was trying to do more than that it was actually working.

"I'm heating you up some curry," Hunk offered, getting up, knowing in his soul that whenever someone was upset all they really needed was a hot meal. And just how Lance's first response to discomfort was to get some stats, Hunk's was to start cooking. But curry?

"No, thanks, Hunk," Lance began to protest again, but he shut up when he saw the look Hunk was giving him. Hunk stood with his arms crossed and head tilted, knowing almost all there was to know about Lance, understanding him better than Lance's own brothers.

"Nope, we've talked about this," Hunk reprimanded. "Just because Keith can't eat it doesn't mean you starve. I'm getting you some lunch."

Pidge patted his shoulder as Hunk left for the kitchen, and Lance felt a little better in spite of himself. He was hungry; he'd forgotten that he did that, though now that Hunk had brought it to his attention he did remember the other conversations they'd had about this very thing. The curry was too spicy for Keith, but that didn't mean he couldn't have some. It wouldn't do Keith any good for him not to eat.

"Why don't you go get that book?" Pidge suggested. "We can go over that Spanish oral thing you wanted me to quiz you on. The test is what? Monday?"

Lance nodded, the empty feeling in his stomach subsiding a little. See, Keith? He thought. Friends take care of each other. He went to do as Pidge said, ready to push his dark thoughts out of his mind and soul. His father used to talk to him about it, how he worried too much. Be in the now, he'd say. Feel the sun, look at my face. Don't lose the memories you may make today by thinking about a problem that may never happen later. There is a difference between a worry and a plan. So he pulled _La Vida es Sueño_ from his backpack and decided to be in the moment. Enjoy this quiet time with his friends on a snowy afternoon while Keith rested. Enjoy Hunk's curry. Soak up as many moments as he could with these wonderful scientists instead of missing out by worrying about what it would be like after they were gone.

He returned to his seat, plopping instead of sinking into it this time, thumbing through the book to find the pages with the soliloquy on them. He'd purposefully picked the most challenging option for this assignment, knowing it would earn him bonus points from his professor and semi-jealous hostility from the non-native speakers in the room. Since the points would get him farther than anyone's opinion of him in that particular class, he'd opted to be practical instead of popular.

They waited for him to eat before starting, since he couldn't chew and recite at the same time. The curry was amazing, as expected, a smooth balance of mellow and spicy, soaking into the perfect ratio of jasmine rice. As he ate, Hunk and Pidge returned to their mechanism, disconnecting a wire here, tightening one there, moving around each other with professional familiarity. Outside, he could hear the wind, and he knew that the sun was at its tipping point for going down again, but for right now, everything was soft light and coziness. The almost exact opposite of a hospital.

"Show me where you're starting," Pidge said when he was ready, and he obligingly handed over the tiny gold book, pointing out the beginning of the thirty-line soliloquy. Pidge spoke maybe half a dozen words of Spanish, all of them taught to her by American cartoons and commercials, but her analytical mind could match the words on the page to what she heard Lance say easier than Hunk could do it, so she was the best choice for testing his memorization. "Ok, cool – let's do it first slow and clear for accuracy and then you can run through again how it's supposed to sound when you perform it."

Lance stood up, only because it seemed impossible for him to do this while sitting still, like his mind required movement in order to transition the words from his memory to his mouth. Pidge gave him a raised eyebrow, but she was smiling indulgently at him. Hunk put both elbows on the table, content to just listen.

"Ready?" Lance asked rather nervously, just because he felt so dumb in the seconds before he got into it. Beginning always seemed awkward to him, though he knew he'd be fine after a couple lines. Pidge gave him a thumbs up while Hunk nodded, so Lance brushed himself off and started reciting. "_Sueña el rey que es rey_. . ." And he began to pace the short distance between the table and couch, closing his eyes as if that would help him read the words off the page he kept in his brain. He knew he was gesturing with his hand, like a chorister conducts a choir, because this particular monologue had a specific cadence to it, a rhythm, and it somehow felt right to emphasize the downbeat with a cut of his hand. Pidge had to stop and slow him down once as he unconsciously sped into that rhythm since she couldn't distinguish individual words anymore. He tried harder to enunciate carefully.

"_Y__ los sueños, sueños son_," he finished, standing still and opening his eyes to see how he'd done. Pidge had a hand over her mouth, eyes intent on the book, nodding thoughtfully. "Did I miss anything?" He asked her, but had to shift his focus to Hunk who was spinning his finger in the air in a "turn around" gesture.

"The words are all fine," Pidge assessed. "But you move too – ow, Hunk, what?" Hunk had elbowed her in the side, jerking his head toward the couch. Puzzled, Lance looked over his shoulder . . . locking eyes immediately with Keith, taking him by surprise so much that he felt his own heart jolt hard. How did he even do that? Move so quietly? Stare like that.

"Hi," Lance greeted him in a rather frightened burst, feeling stupid. He hadn't meant to wake him up with his pacing. Keith's eyes and mouth were both open. He'd curled against the armrest of the couch, Lance's shirt still in his hand. Lance felt worry bloom out in his chest and the back of his throat. Keith looked more than a little disoriented. Had his fever gone up again?

"Keith," Lance called to him as he dropped to one knee in front of the couch. "You with me?" Because he really didn't look like it. He was looking at Lance like he didn't know him again. Like he had no idea where he was. "What's my name? Can you tell me?"

"Lance," Keith answered, still staring, still looking confused. Lance didn't like it one bit.

"And what class do we have together?" Lance asked, testing his memory and level of consciousness.

"English," Keith replied, relieving Lance a little. "But that's not what you were speaking." Oh, that was it. Lance nodded, understanding. Keith had woken up to Lance wandering around the room reciting Spanish poetry. He probably thought he'd gone crazy.

"Right, sorry, Lobito," Lance apologized, hearing Hunk chuckle softly behind him, hearing the relief in it. Seemed he wasn't the only one to think that there was something wrong. "I was practicing for my Spanish oral exam that's on Monday. I didn't mean to wake you up. Pidge was testing me. How are you feeling? Doing ok?"

"You speak Spanish?" Keith asked instead of answering Lance's questions, sounding like Lance had been keeping secrets from him on purpose. Hunk was full on laughing at the table now, and Lance waved a hand at him to knock it off.

"Wow, you guys really don't know each other at all, do you?" Pidge accused, her elbows high in the air as she rested her hands behind her head. Keith went back and forth between them, unsure where to focus. In the end, he settled on Lance, his expression wounded, like he thought he'd done something wrong.

"So what?" Lance defended, making sure Keith understood that it wasn't a big deal. There was no reason on earth why he should know anything about Lance. "I'm getting you something to drink, Lobito," he told him gently, standing up. "And we need to check some stats now that you're awake."

"But . . wait," Keith said, though Lance was only going to the kitchen, pulling out a new container of Gatorade he kept in the fridge just for occasions like this one. "What's so funny? What'd I say?"

"Lance's native language is Spanish," Pidge offered, though she somehow made it sound slightly condescending. Or challenging? Lance couldn't quite pin down the nuance, but whatever it was, it wasn't exactly friendly. Like she wanted to make a point that she knew Lance better than Keith did and always would.

"Really?" Keith again searched out Lance for confirmation on this. Lance allowed himself a small smile of pride, carrying a glass of Gatorade back to the couch. Keith eyed it suspiciously, checking Lance's face for any sign that he might be able to get out of drinking it.

"It's true," Lance revealed. "I grew up in Cuba. Here, take a drink."

"That stuff is disgusting," Keith said, actually leaning away from the cup, and Lance knew exactly what he meant. Gatorade was unique in that it only tasted good when your body really needed what was in it. For normal people, it did taste gross. For dehydrated people – it was heavenly.

"I guarantee you – today it will taste fine," Lance promised, extending the glass again. Keith continued giving him that look, the one that said Lance was keeping something from him, but he hesitantly took the glass and sipped at it. Lance watched his eyes go wide, smiled as Keith held the glass out in front of him to check the contents again, as if it suddenly wasn't what he thought it was. Then he shook his head a little and took another swallow.

"It's good, isn't it?" Lance prompted, and Keith sort of glared at him from over the rim of the glass with his mysteriously colored, fever-bright eyes.

"How the hell do you do that?" He asked after draining half the contents, making Lance suddenly feel warm all over. He moved away to gather his things from his bag, the blood pressure cuff, thermometer, notebook, suspecting that his face had blushed and wanting to hide it. He didn't need anyone giving him flak for that. "Or does everything just taste better here?"

"If Hunk makes it yes, everything does just taste better, but in this case, it's a mind trick; your body is craving the electrolytes. Here, let me see your arm." Lance wrapped Keith's bicep in the cuff, anxious to get a reading to alleviate the concern he'd felt earlier taking Keith's pulse. He wanted to make sure he'd been imagining it when he thought it might be weaker. Ninety-five over sixty. Borderline . . . again. Technically, it was still normal, but it was lower than the previous readings. At least Keith's temperature had also gone down, not much, but it was under 103 now and Lance considered that a major accomplishment. Even the pulse rate had improved. Maybe another good nap could finally break this.

"Well?" Hunk asked from the table where he and Pidge were watching Lance do his doctor routine, genuinely concerned to learn Keith's status.

"Actually, it's looking ok," Lance said, nodding encouragingly at Keith. "Heart rate's down, temperature's down a little. But your blood pressure went down too and that's . . . not so good? But it's not bad either. You need to keep drinking, though. How are you feeling? Any better?"

"Not . . really," Keith said hesitantly, as if worried he was going to give the wrong answer or say something disappointing.

"That's not surprising," Lance assured him. The changes were so minor and could be attributed to the fact that Keith had just woken up and was holding so still. "How about your heart? Does it still hurt?"

"No," again with the hesitant answers, but Lance thought he should feel lucky that Keith was answering at all. "But it feels weird. Tired? I don't know . . . hot maybe?"

Lance didn't know what to say to that. It wasn't a symptom he recognized, and he couldn't really translate it to something he did. And until Coran called back with the test results, he was pretty much just stuck with the same things he'd been doing. Fluids, rest, pain maintenance, and monitoring. He wrote a few more notes into his book so he could research it in a little more detail.

"When did you learn English?" Keith blurted out all of a sudden before Lance was quite finished. He tilted his head at the strange return to their previous topic, and he could feel Pidge and Hunk tuning in intently from the table. "How old were you?"

"Um, I don't remember," Lance began, ending his last sentence. "I guess I was fluent by the time I was . uh . . ten, I think. Why?"

"Because you speak it perfectly." Keith sounded rather hostile about it, or maybe that wasn't the right word. Intense, perhaps. Whatever the tone, Lance felt his face flush again. Geeze, Keith. "You don't have an accent or anything."

"Everyone has an accent," Lance said quietly. "I've just made it a point to make mine sound more like yours."

"Lance," Hunk called him, sounding a little giddy. "Lance, do the thing!"

"I don't think so," Lance shot back without looking at his friend. Sometimes when the physicists were over, Hunk and Pidge liked to show off Lance's ability to do accents. They usually brought it out as a parlor trick shortly after Pidge would win the inevitable contest on which nerd could recite pi the farthest. Since Pidge could continue through the two hundredth decimal point – she always won. Then Lance would entertain them all with the accents as a smooth follow up, something to ease any tension about Pidge being the smartest in the room. It never failed. They all ended up laughing. But . . . he didn't really feel like doing it right now. It seemed too much like showing off, even though that's not why he'd practiced so hard.

"Aw, come on, Lance; why not?" Pidge persuaded. Lance bit his tongue before suggesting that she start reciting decimal places instead. He started putting his gear away in the med bag as slowly as possible, ignoring them. At least, he tried to. But then Keith softly touched his shoulder and his attention snapped to him like a magnet.

"What are they talking about?" Keith asked, partly curious and partly anxious.

"Nothing," Lance said, glaring at the table where Hunk sat with big puppy dog eyes and Pidge was grinning in triumph even though he hadn't agreed to do anything yet. "They're being weird."

"No, it's awesome," Hunk argued, then spoke to Keith. "Lance can speak English in any accent you can think of." 

Lance rolled his eyes, zipping up the bag. That wasn't even true.

"Yeah?" Keith said, sounding a little interested. Maybe more than a little.

"Show him, Lance," Hunk pleaded, knowing that most of the time, Lance was secretly pleased to share this hidden talent. But . . .

"Keith's head hurts," Lance pointed out, standing up to put away the bag, ready to walk out of the conversation. "The last thing he wants is me spouting a Scottish burr."

"Keith?" Hunk said, beseechingly, trying to shift the vote far enough and knowing that Keith was the only one who could tip it the way he wanted. Lance paused at the side of the couch on his way to his room, holding to the strap of the heavy bag to keep it on his shoulder, knowing that Keith absolutely did not care about stupid stuff like this. It was too inconsequential, too random and strange. But he wanted to hear what his answer was before walking off.

"Actually, I would like to hear it," Keith said, quietly, reaching over to take Lance's shirt cuff between two of his fingers. "If that's ok with you." Something very like pleasure radiated from Lance's wrist where Keith's hand was hesitantly holding him. He did? Really?

"I need a book," Lance acquiesced, sighing, not near as put out as he was making himself sound. "Not that one," he said preemptively to Pidge, knowing that she was still holding _La Vida es Sueño_. "An English one. Be right back."

He heard some excited chatter from Hunk as he left the room to put his bag away, and he wondered what was being said while he was not there. Nothing bad, he knew, but he was still curious. He looked at what he had book-wise that might be interesting to read and came up a little short. Mostly all he had were textbooks, an outdoor emergency care behemoth that weighed more than three gallons of milk, and that dumb copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ he'd purchased when he'd been way too excited to impress Allura. But it was either that or Early Childhood Development so . . . he picked up the outdoor emergency care guide.

"A little light reading, eh?" Pidge joked when he returned bearing the beast in both arms.

"You want me to do this or what?" Lance challenged, coming to stand near the center of the room, making a triangle of the couch and the dining table. He opened the book near the center so it would be easy to balance in his hands. Like with the recitation, he'd need to stay standing in order to do this, to shift his weight from foot to foot as he switched his voice from accent to accent. Something about the adrenaline from having to perform wouldn't let him sit still for it. "What first?" He invited, standing like an animatron that needed a quarter inserted for it to work – a circus side-show act. Because it was more fun for the audience to throw nationalities at him, to see him glide from one to another with only a word of transition.

"Jamaican," Hunk said, making Lance purse his lips as he centered around that. He deliberately did not look at Keith, knowing he'd screw up if he did. Knowing the intensity of Keith's stare would render him completely speechless. He concentrated on the book, the placement of his tongue against the back of his teeth. He began to read.

As Lance read through the signs, symptoms, and treatment for heat exhaustion, heat stroke, and puncture wounds, his friends tossed out accents at random intervals. Scottish, German, French, Australian, South African, on and on. Whenever he played this game, Lance's mind would wind back to Varadero, the heavy, hot wetness of the air, the scent of the ocean, the sticky-sweet taste of mango. The warmth of his goat's fur under his hand. And he would see them in his head – the tourists. The Germans in packs consisting of their entire family, all wearing matching shirts. Hesitant French couples that took longer to open up to him. Dutch girls on spring break who kissed him and British men who clapped him on the back. Canadians whose smiles opened on their faces as blooms do in the springtime as they recognized their speech patterns in his words. Americans who laughed and wanted to pat his goats – take their picture together. He could hear the creak of his wooden cart, the sound of goat hooves clicking along the path home after sunset, feel the heaviness of coins in his bag. He read in a Russian accent, feeling the familiar ache of homesickness settle into his heart. Something that always happened, but he didn't talk about. Every person in this room was far away from home, after all, and he always felt dumb that it seemed to bother him more than anyone else.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been going, or how many accents he'd run through. In all honesty, he'd done this so much he wasn't paying that much attention. He heard the new requests from outside his consciousness, but the only thing he could really feel that was in his apartment was the heaviness of the book in his hands.

But then he heard Keith say, "Cuban," and his tongue stuck tight in his mouth, his voice catching in his throat, the whole experience slamming to a stop. The book slipped from his hands, crashing incredibly loud onto the floor. Lance jumped back from it, surprised. No one ever asked for that one. Not once had anyone asked for what would have been his own true accent. And worse – he discovered that he couldn't even do it. He knelt on the floor, carefully gathering his book with shaky hands, straightening the pages so he could close it correctly, horrified at himself. He couldn't do it. He'd tried so hard to shed that one, that one accent that would have marked him the same as every other fruit vendor on the playa. And he'd done so well ridding himself of his native identity that now he couldn't even bring it up if he wanted to. He felt ashamed, traitorous.

"Yeah, I . . um . . I think that's enough for now," he said, his voice small and tight.

"Lance, it's ok," Hunk began, but he knew if Hunk said anything to him right now he'd burst into tears and he did not want to do that. He hurried toward his room, clutching the book like a shield against his chest, dodging Keith as he reached for him on his way by.

"Lance – what?" He heard Keith ask, and he wanted to tell him that it wasn't his fault, but he couldn't yet. He just had to get out of the room – right now. Hunk was talking still, he could hear it behind him as he replaced the book, breathing in jerky little gasps, hardly able to see past the blur that had misted his eyes. Pidge was talking too.

"No," Pidge said, surprised and soothing at the same time. "You didn't do anything; just give him a minute."

"Just stay down, Keith," Hunk instructed, a clue to Lance that Keith was trying to get up to follow him. The last thing he wanted was for Keith to see him like this.

"You stay on that couch, Keith!" Lance tried to yell past the lump in his throat before he sat on the edge of his bed and dropped his face into his hands. But when he closed his eyes, all he could see was his mother, the sad but proud expression she wore as she hugged him one last time before sending him in the cab to the airport near Matanzas. And then all he could hear were the affectionate but accusatory words of his brothers when he'd let them know he'd been accepted on scholarship to the pre-med program in Chicago. They had wrapped their emotions carefully, but Lance had heard it anyway. They said they would miss him, but they meant he shouldn't go. What was wrong with what they had here? Why would he want to leave? Didn't he care what that would do to Mom? Sometimes it made Lance feel so selfish that he hadn't just stayed where he was, doing the same thing his family had done for generations. It made him feel like a bad son, like he'd shunned everything his father had worked for, what he had tried to build so he could give it to his children. Lance felt like he'd rejected all of that by choosing something else, by stripping himself of his own accent. What kind of son betrayed his family like that? How could he be so ungrateful?

He was so caught up on how he'd lost part of himself that he didn't hear Keith until he was at the doorway again.

"Lance?" Keith asked, and Lance squeezed his eyes more firmly closed, wiping his hands across them. Damn it, Keith. "Hey, I'm sorry. I . . . didn't mean to. . ." he sounded like he wasn't sure what he should be saying, that he was afraid of making it worse.

"I thought I told you to stay on the couch," Lance said, and his voice sounded cold to him, dead almost.

"Can . . . Can I come sit with you?" Keith asked, unsure, and Lance could suddenly hear how breathless he was. He forced himself to turn his head toward him, finally seeing him as he stood huddled against the doorframe, neither Hunk nor Pidge supporting him, his face almost white. He'd come on his own, barely able to walk but he'd come anyway. Lance felt both touched by the gesture and put out that Keith had ignored his instructions.

"For heaven's sake, Keith," he said, immediately getting up to come to Keith's side, folding around him. "God, you're shaking like crazy. Come on – what'd you get up for? I told you to stay still." Lance pushed aside his feelings, more than ready to be rid of them, making space to focus entirely on Keith. His patient let go of the door, submitting to Lance's support readily, a hand closing around Lance's shirt at his shoulder blade while Lance put an arm around Keith's waist.

He let Keith lean on him, heavy and trembling, leading him the few steps to the bed and easing him down onto the clean sheets that Hunk must have put on sometime while they'd both been asleep. He pulled the quilt over him, kneeling on the floor at his side. But Keith didn't seem to like their positioning. "Not down there," he muttered. He tugged weakly at Lance until he'd returned to his original place, perched on the bedside. Keith was still breathing hard, his hand pushed tight against his chest.

"Take it easy, Lobito," Lance told him, rubbing his arm, hating that he'd caused this. Again. "You shouldn't move so much."

"Yeah, but," Keith protested, hardly able to talk. There was barely any strength in him at all. "You looked so upset. . . and I . . ." he broke off into a groan of frustration.

"Hey," Lance comforted. "Careful. Don't get so worked up. I'm fine."

"You're such a liar." Oh . . wow. That was a shock. Lance had never considered himself a liar before. Sure, he told lies, but it was usually so he wouldn't bother anyone, so he wouldn't hurt anyone's feelings. No one had ever said it so bluntly to him before. But then again, Keith didn't have a lot of energy to mince words. Lance bowed his head, ashamed of a lot of things. Being called out by Keith, for breaking down when he was supposed to be in charge, for failing his family, for missing them so hard. For not knowing what to do with Keith or Allura.

"Pidge says you're homesick," Keith went on, the word coming out of him like he'd never said it before. Which wasn't surprising. How could Keith have ever been homesick if he'd never had a real home? The thought made Lance feel even worse, spoiled. He had so much that Keith didn't; he had no right to feel like this.

"She's right," Lance allowed, not able to look at Keith anymore.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Keith invited, and Lance bit back a sob at how gentle he sounded. How genuine.

"It's stupid," he said.

"Nothing you do is stupid," Keith returned, rather firmly for his posture. "Tell me about Cuba?" he asked. "How'd you even get here?"

Despite his better judgement, Lance found himself telling Keith everything. All about his brothers and sisters, how he was the youngest. He talked about the goat cart and hauling the mangoes from his orchard to the beaches, selling them to tourists there all day long to help feed his family. He spoke of his little nephews, showing Keith the bracelet that Mateo, the eldest son of his eldest brother, had gifted to him before he'd left, the woven threads of blue, gray, black, and white that he hadn't removed since Mateo had tied the knots on it more than a year ago. He talked about the goats and the sun and Dr. Paul Farmer. Talked about his goals and his dreams. He almost spoke about his mother, but once he got to her, he suddenly couldn't talk anymore. He sighed, feeling drained.

"I hate it sometimes; how much I miss them. Hunk's family lives in Hawaii, but he's coping with the distance just fine."

"Hunk says you're going to talk to them tomorrow morning," Keith volunteered, his voice stronger now that he'd been lying down for a while. "He . . he says that you'll have your accent back after that whether you like it or not."

"Ha," Lance huffed, but he was sorry he'd done it when his throat closed on him again. He put his hand on his mouth, trying to hold it together. He felt Keith shift closer to the wall, felt him tugging on him, pulling him down, and he allowed it. He let Keith drag him until he was lying on his side, their knees touching – Keith under the blanket and Lance on top of it. Lance turned his face toward the mattress as tears finally made their escape from his eyes, feeling the wetness spread on the sheet beneath his uninjured cheek. 

"I . . don't really understand," Keith confessed. Of course you don't, Lance thought. We're so different. "But it sounds like they depended on you for a lot, and so that would probably make it harder to leave them. They had expectations of you that you changed, so now you worry about it."

"Yeah, maybe," Lance said, trying to be casual, though he was inwardly astonished that Keith was being so perceptive.

"Is that why you take care of everyone?" Keith asked. "Because you feel guilty about leaving your family?"

"I don't know," Lance muttered. Shut up, Keith.

"I'm sorry," Keith apologized again. "I didn't know I'd mess everything up."

"There's no way you could have," Lance said in forgiveness. "And you didn't really. I did."

"I just wanted to hear . . . I don't know . . how you really sound, I guess. It seems like you're so many things for so many different people. I wanted to hear your voice when you aren't any of that."

"This is my voice, Keith," Lance reminded him, sitting up a little, resting his head on his hand, watching Keith.

"I know, but," Keith said, sounding sleepy again, and confused, as if he were struggling to get his point across. "When you were doing that test thing. . .whatever that was you were saying . . . it sounded so beautiful." Lance leaned back slightly, gauging whether Keith were making fun of him or not. But it didn't look like it. He had his eyes closed, taking quick breaths with gaps between.

"Well, it's a poem," Lance explained. "So it's kind of supposed to –"

"That's not what made it beautiful," Keith argued. Lance was glad that Keith had his eyes closed so he wouldn't see what his words were doing to him.

"Shh," he told him, not knowing if he could handle much more of this. "You need to rest."

"I just woke up. You'd think I wouldn't still be so tired."

"Yeah, well, your sleep isn't really rest right now," Lance explained. "Your body is fighting this virus so hard. You have every reason to be exhausted." And say weird, disconcerting things about my voice. "But maybe your fever will break while you sleep this time."

"Will you say that poem again?" The request was so innocent it almost broke Lance's heart. Who would have thought Keith would have liked it so much?

"If you want me to, Lobito."

Before he began the recitation again, he caught some movement at the edge of his vision. Curious, he turned toward it, seeing Pidge standing in his doorway, arms crossed. Her face was twisted into an expression he'd never seen on her before. She looked worried and angry, afraid. Lance didn't understand what her issue was. When she noticed that he'd caught her staring at them, she gestured for him to come out of the room with her. He shook his head, holding up a hand with his fingers spread, indicating that he'd be done in five minutes or so. Then he could come see what she needed. She put her hands on her hips, not used to him ignoring her.

"Come with me," she mouthed the words, putting more emphasis into her face so he'd have an easier time reading her lips.

"Not yet," he mouthed back.

"What the hell?" She bit into each silent word.

"Lance?" Keith asked, opening his eyes and shifting as if he'd sit up, pushing himself to see why Lance had just gone silent. He looked over to the doorway where Lance had been looking at Pidge, but she'd disappeared just that quick. Lance wondered why she wanted him to come with her, why she looked so mad.

"I'm here," he assured Keith, putting his hand on his arm again, one thing at a time. He shifted into Spanish, like Keith wanted, using its tone to lull him to rest since he wouldn't understand the words but could maybe take comfort from Lance's voice. "_Descansa tu corazón. No te dejare._" He slowly moved his palm from Keith's arm to his chest, feeling his heart jump under his hand, throbbing like a wounded bird. He sighed, confused and conflicted, remembering how simple his life had been before Keith had come into it. Or at least how simple he'd thought it had been.

**Author's Note: I wish you guys could hang out with me while I write this story. There's so much research going into this thing. (What's a normal blood pressure range? Where's the closest airport to Varadero? What are the leading countries that visit Cuba? What's the phrase for holding two conflicting thoughts in your head at the same time?) It's a riot. But satisfying. What do you guys think? How was the chapter? Worth waiting for?**

**You know what else is worth waiting for? Finding out what Pidge wants to say! But I'll try not to make you wait another three weeks for that (Again, sorry!)**


	9. Voluntary Manslaughter

**Author's Note: First up, a thank you. Thanks for sticking with me. I'm having the most delightful time and I love hearing from all of you. Now do take a deep breath – I'm about to sucker punch you in the gut. (It's because I love you?)**

**Chapter Nine: Voluntary Manslaughter**

Pidge was waiting for him. And he knew that every minute he remained in his room at Keith's side was just making her increasingly impatient. She was likely sitting with Hunk, bristled and pissed that he was ignoring her. Which wasn't what he was doing, not really. He was anxious to see what was up with her, why she looked so worried, why she was so insistent to talk to him. He wanted to tell her how much he appreciated her, and most of all, he wanted to reset their relationship and get them back on good terms. But he just couldn't bring himself to go yet. He wanted to be sure that Keith was truly asleep, and he wanted to settle his own spirit too.

Lance had successfully slipped off the bed without disturbing his patient and was again kneeling at the side, focused entirely on minutiae and writing down everything he saw. He didn't like what Keith had said earlier about his heart, about how it felt tired and hot, though not painful. He didn't like the lowered blood pressure. And he especially hated that he didn't know what any of it meant. He checked his previous stats for any kind of sign or pattern that he might be missing, looking at the details from a distance.

He saw immediately that Keith was definitely not getting enough fluids because he'd spent most of his day so far asleep. And though it was encouraging that his temperature was holding steady around 103, even going down a little; it was not good for his heart rate to be this elevated for this long. No wonder Keith said it felt tired and hot – it was an overheated, overworked machine at this point. But Lance just couldn't think of any way to slow it down other than breaking the fever. Which actually should be happening soon now if past patients were any indication of the typical timeline for this thing.

Except Keith wasn't typical. Keith pushed all the limits. As unpleasant as it sounded, he should be writhing in pain by now, a little over thirty-six hours in, as his immune system gathered the waste of the destroyed and weakened virus into his kidneys – producing an agonizing backache that signaled the end of the illness, the last thing to happen before each patient had finally complained about being hot and thirsty, the transition to the recovery period that lasted several days. Hunk and Genevieve had hit that point just twenty-four hours into their fevers. The geoscience guy went four hours past that, and Pidge, Lance's worst case before Keith, had taken thirty-two hours.

But it was like Keith was stuck somehow. Not getting better, and while the flu symptoms weren't getting any worse, at least not yet with the sun still up, they were causing other issues that made Lance nervous. Even now, even though Keith was falling asleep again – Lance could see that he was breathing irregularly, too fast, or pausing like he'd done last night for a little longer than he should. He couldn't stand or sit up for very long without messing up his heart rate. It could be simple dehydration doing it, or the anemia that Coran suspected, or it could be something life threatening like a blood infection. There was even the slight chance for sudden cardiac arrest during arrhythmic episodes.

Those were the absolute worst-case scenarios, though. Lance didn't think they were at that point yet and he reminded himself, again, that he was probably over thinking it. Keith's color indicated that sepsis was not something Lance really needed to worry about, and provided Keith stayed as still as possible, kept his head down, his heart rate remained steady, though elevated. He just needed more time, more rest. As much comfort as Lance could give. Which meant he should probably get him the pillow from the couch.

Pidge was halfway out of her chair the second she saw Lance coming in to the room, but he put both hands out to stop her.

"I'm not ready yet," he said quickly, snatching up the pillow and his shirt from the couch. "Give me a couple more minutes. He's almost asleep."

"Lance," Pidge said darkly, warningly, and started a nonverbal argument. Pidge and Lance specialized in silent fights; they'd learned quickly that if they had a disagreement, they had to keep it away from Hunk. He loved them both so hard that for them to have discord with each other was almost physically painful for him. Even now, though they weren't saying anything out loud, Lance could see Hunk tightening up, hunching over a schematic on the table, actively trying to ignore them.

Lance stared openly at Pidge, letting her read him fully. What? His posture told her. What's so urgent that you have to tell me right this second? I'm not avoiding you. I want to know; I really do. Whatever is important to you is important to me too, but unless it's a real emergency, which is doubtful as you're sitting there breathing correctly, sound and well, I think you can wait.

Pidge was one of the few people he knew who could translate all these thoughts from his stance, and he knew he'd gotten through to her as she sank all the way back into her chair, pouting, breathing out a puff of frustration like a furious little dragon. He nodded a thank you to her.

"I'll hurry," he promised, and she shrugged as if it didn't even matter to her anymore how long he took because she was done with him. It was only a defense mechanism, though. He really did have to hurry if he didn't want to truly hurt her feelings.

His room was covered in shadows when he returned to it, the result of more clouds rolling in from the lake. More snow, a sunset that would never be seen from behind the fog that hadn't fully lifted from campus all day. Without the thunder, however, it seemed gentle today, a protective cover, turning the space into a little healing cocoon.

Lance deftly slipped his hand under Keith's head to help him lift it enough so he could rest on the pillow again, allowing his spine to align and his breathing to ease a little. Without really noticing, he set down his shirt on the bed too, close to the pillow, for no reason at all except he wasn't sure what to do with it right at the moment.

"I'm sorry," Keith murmured. "Did you say something? I keep falling asleep."

"That's exactly what I want you to do," Lance told him. "I brought you here so you could rest. I will have to wake you up more often to drink something, though."

"Sure," Keith muttered, noncommittedly, drawing in another breath that he held.

"Keith, why are you breathing like that?" Lance asked, hoping to bring his attention to it enough for him to stop. "You keep taking a breath and holding it. Why?"

"I didn't notice." That was fair enough, though frustrating. Lance spent some extra time fishing out his pulse oximeter from the med bag.

"I'm checking your oxygen saturation level one more time," Lance warned him before picking up his hand and clipping the meter to his finger. Keith didn't even move, and Lance wondered if it was because he was simply ok with Lance touching him now or if it was because he was just too sick to recoil anymore. The reading came back at ninety-six percent – the lower end of normal. Still, Lance would feel more comfortable with a bigger cushion. Say, ninety-eight.

"Breathe deeper, Keith," he instructed. "I'll keep reminding you, but whenever you think of it, take deep breaths, ok?"

"Ok," Keith agreed, mostly asleep. Lance shook his head, knowing that hadn't communicated well, but he could also feel Pidge's impatience now, despite how she wasn't anywhere he could see her, and he felt safe enough to leave for a few minutes.

"I'll be in the other room for a bit," he told Keith. "Pidge needs me for something, but I'll be back to check on you and we need to figure out how to get some more calories into you soon. Is that all right?"

This seemed to rouse Keith more than anything else Lance had said. He shifted, opening his eyes. "You're leaving?" He asked, suddenly anxious, bringing to Lance's mind the polarity of Keith's character. How one moment, he was tough and hard and the next he was no older to Lance than Mateo. 

"No," he assured, putting a soothing hand over Keith's after removing the oximeter. "I'll be just outside the door. You're not alone, Keith. We're all here. Ok?"

"You're coming back?"

Lance sighed, hurting for Keith, feeling guilty for something he hadn't even done. "Well, you know," he tried to joke to lighten the mood a little. "This is kind of my room, so yeah, I'll be back. Should I put on some music for you? Would that help if it's not so quiet in here?" He was already moving to the computer, adjusting the sound on the speakers.

"Yeah," Keith agreed slowly, though it was obvious he would prefer if Lance just stayed.

"What kind of music do you like? Or like. . . sounds? Like rain or white noise like that?"

"What do you listen to?" Keith asked, seemingly unable to come up with anything on his own. Lance wondered if Keith had been allowed a preference about anything in his entire life. But Lance had a preference and was ready to share it. He brought up his iTunes, specifically Don Gibson's Piano Cascades album, a calming mixture of natural water and piano, soft and soothing. He set it to repeat and lowered the volume slightly.

"This is what I use to relax," Lance said. He then physically pushed Keith back to the bed, indulging in stroking his hair away from his face, resting his hand on his head for a little longer than necessary. "_Respira_," he told Keith. "Keep breathing deep now. I'll be back soon."

"Thanks," Keith said, closing his eyes again, his body folding up as Lance took small steps backward toward the hallway. The last thing Lance saw was Keith's hand curling around the shirt he'd left on the bed, bunching it up against his chest as he tucked his arms close to his body. Lance gently closed the door, hoping whatever Pidge had to say wouldn't take too long. He was still worried.

The few steps down the hall were a 180-degree flip from still and dark to bright and frazzled. Again, Pidge bolted up from her chair when she saw him, and this time he let himself feel curious about it.

"Get your coat," she commanded through clenched teeth. "We're taking a walk."

Feeling intimidated despite their height difference, Lance began putting on his shoes, hoping for a compromise. He'd just told Keith he would be in the next room; he didn't want that to be a lie. Maybe she'd settle for the hallway? Hunk watched them quietly, his innate empathy absorbing all the weird energy between them. Lance saw the same question on Hunk's face that was running through his mind. What the hell was going on?

"Can we stay inside?" Lance pleaded, gesturing toward the balcony door at the snow. "You may have forgotten, but it's really cold out there, and I'm a delicate, tropical flower." She stared at him, unimpressed, and he felt his resolve start to crumble. In fact, he was seconds away from picking up his coat as she'd said when she threw up her hands.

"Fine, we'll go to the lounge. Come on."

"Pidge?" Hunk asked, standing now too, wondering why he was being left out of this, why he was being left behind. Lance watched Pidge soften immediately. She turned back to Hunk, nuzzling into him since he was too tall and broad for her to hug around the neck or waist if they were both standing. Instead, she tucked her fingers into his pockets, pressing her forehead against his solar plexus, a posture that Lance had seen many times before but always felt out of place watching. Like he was intruding on something.

"Lance should get out of here for a little while," Pidge explained to Hunk. "But someone needs to stay in case Keith needs something, right? And since you're the only one strong enough to actually lift him, I'm going to take our boy on a walk for a break so he can clear his head and be his brilliant medical self again tonight. Make sense?"

Now Lance felt incredibly out of place, listening to her talking about him like that. Is this how they always discussed him? He didn't need a break; he needed a solution. He needed to sort through what he could persuade Keith to eat, what would even be possible for him to put in his burned mouth. He needed to do some research on his heart symptoms. Needed to be next to him to soothe him in his sleep.

"Yeah," Hunk was agreeing, pacified. "That makes sense." He carefully bent down to hold Pidge a moment, and Lance could see that he did this as often as she let him, but always waited for her to initiate the contact. It looked special and precious, and Lance admired their relationship at the same time he felt a little jealous that he didn't have one like it. That he was "their boy," as if they were a couple who had adopted a puppy. On the other hand, why wouldn't they think like that? They had other social circles. The Geoscience group, the physicists, the robotics club, several employees at the Museum, even those pale, wide-eyed outcasts that came over for anime marathons sometimes. Lance had . . . well. He talked to a lot of people at the training meetings he attended. He worked well with his fellow EMTs when he did the ambulance runs, tried to make conversation with his coworkers at the plasma center and the regulars who came in to donate. Oh, and there was Coran too. But the point was – Hunk and Pidge brought people to the apartment all the time, for dinners, for video game parties, for geeky, engineering projects and stargazing. Lance simply came home to them. Maybe he really was just their boy. Maybe they took care of him more than he originally thought.

"We'll be back soon," Pidge said, pulling away from Hunk.

"Keith's asleep," Lance put in, wanting to contribute to the conversation, feel like he had some control over something. "I didn't tell him I was leaving the apartment, so hopefully he'll stay that way until I get back. But I'll have my phone in case you need me to come right away."

That last comment made Hunk look slightly anxious, like he wanted to ask what sort of conditions would be required to call Lance back before Pidge was ready. Like he wasn't prepared for that kind of responsibility.

"You'll do fine," Lance reassured, really hoping that they would just take a walk to the lounge for a little while and be right back. He suspected that Pidge had more on her mind than simply giving him a break, though. She looked way too worried for it to be just that, and he suspected that Hunk knew that too but they were both going to humor her because even though she was the smallest, she had both of them completely invested in her in their respective ways.

"Let's go," Pidge said again, grabbing his sleeve and tugging him toward the door. He shared a last look with Hunk as he allowed himself to be dragged out into the hallway, both of them wearing expressions of long-standing endurance. They knew Pidge was like this, and they loved her for it.

Lance obediently followed Pidge down the stairs to the lounge, which was even darker than his room. Someone had turned on the electric fireplace and left it running, so there was a cheerful glow to the area, and it was refreshingly empty. Pidge led him to the couch in front of the fireplace, sitting him down in front of her so she could hold the taller position for once. She didn't sit down, but folded her arms, leaving the lights off in the room so she was standing in silhouette in front of the fire. Lance didn't feel all that comfortable about the position. He felt like he was in trouble, but he couldn't imagine why.

"What's going on, Pidge?" He hated being the one to break the silence, but he couldn't take it anymore. Why did she feel she had to bring him all the way down here? Why keep secrets from Hunk?

And even though Pidge had practically dragged him in her hurry to tell him whatever she had to tell him, now she hesitated. She didn't seem to know where to start. He watched her face contort between her need to share whatever information she had and her desire not to hurt his feelings. It made Lance want to help her, somehow, but he was at a loss as to what he should do. He had no idea why they were even here.

"Katie?" He said gently, making her actually cringe a little. They were hardly ever serious enough with each other to require him to use her real name anymore. "You ok?"

"You big-hearted idiot," she snarled at him, which only made his sympathy melt a little more toward her. She only insulted people in that tone of voice when she really cared.

"What did I do?" He invited. "Sit down?" He reached for her, but she dodged him, moving instead to perch on the armrest of the couch, maintaining her height over him with the position, splitting her face between the fire's glow and the shadows. This was obviously really bothering her. He turned toward her on the couch, pulling one leg underneath him and holding onto his ankle, waiting and ready.

"Do you know anything about Keith at all?" She finally asked, rather accusingly, confusing him.

"No," he said simply, shrugging it off. That's what was bugging her? "I mean, I know what I need to know about his medical history, and that's all that's really required for treatment. I didn't know your geo friend either – what was his name again?"

"Evan, but this is not the same." Right, Evan. Now he remembered.

"Why not?" Lance asked innocently.

"Because _I_ know Evan, and I know he's a good person. None of us know Keith."

"I'm still not seeing much difference," Lance said, though there were so many differences between Keith and Evan he didn't think he could list them all. However, from a medical perspective, those differences didn't much matter. The procedure remained the same. It absolutely was not a requirement to conduct a get-to-know-you interview with every patient on anything other than their medical history. And he had made it a point to get Keith's medical history, as much as he was able. "I'm going to be looking after thousands of people I don't know, that you don't know, that maybe no one knows depending on the situation. Keith's no different than Evan."

"Except you weren't falling in love with Evan."

Lance pushed himself against the opposite armrest, as far away from Pidge as possible, his turn to fold his arms. "I'm not falling in love with Keith either," he defended himself, wishing she would just let that go. This crazy theory she kept throwing out there, first teasingly and now with actual concern. And even if it were true, which it wasn't, what difference did it make to her?

He watched her shoulders lift as she took a deep, calming breath, as if seeking patience, pinching the bridge of her nose like she did when confronted with a monumental problem.

"How about we skip the part where I talk you out of your own denial?" She requested.

"Or how about we agree to disagree on that particular point and move on to why you would care so much and why you seem to think it's a problem?" Lance returned, shutting her down again.

"Lance, I'm worried about you," she said, quietly, in a vulnerable tone that she never used. It made the hair at the back of Lance's neck stand up, the shadows of the room taking on a sinister darkness. It made no sense at all when he compared it to what Pidge was saying. "You're like a brother to me, ok? I don't want you to get hurt."

"Then get straight and tell me what you really want to tell me," Lance pushed, off balance, unused to Pidge speaking gently this way, hating the mystery and the edginess of Pidge's demeanor.

"Fine," Pidge almost snapped, the verbal equivalent of ripping off a bandaid, which initiated about the same amount of painful relief for Lance. Finally. "Since you weren't interested in Keith's background, I decided to look it up for you."

This comment brought Lance straight up off the couch. He didn't want to hear any more, didn't want to know more than he already knew, didn't want anything Keith had said last night confirmed in any way. But Pidge anticipated what he'd do and shot for the doorway like a thrown dart, moving faster than he'd ever seen her, slamming both hands on either side of the frame and spreading her feet to each side too, blocking it as much as possible. He'd have to physically lift or push her out of the way if he wanted to leave.

"No, you don't," she challenged him as if she took up the same amount of space in the doorway as Hunk did. Lance hated that she actually might be harder for him to get past than the Samoan rugby player. Pidge lifted her face to glare at him. "And it looks like you do know some stuff after all."

"That's not right, Katie," he told her, angry at being caught like this. Angry at her for invading Keith's privacy, knowing how much it meant to him. "That's not fair."

"Maybe not," she allowed. "But I did it; it's over now, and I'm not sorry because you need to know some things."

"No. If Keith wants to tell me, he can when he's ready. Now please move."

"Keith is never going to tell you," she responded, hard and adamant. "So I am."

"Don't make me pick you up," Lance begged, but they both knew it was an empty threat. Pidge was small, but she was vicious. Lance would have an easier time picking up a honey badger.

"You go ahead and try."

They glared at each other, a silent, intense contest of wills where Lance suddenly realized how tired he was. He felt himself shrinking in submission, hating the part of himself that actually did want to know what Pidge had found out. But he'd made promises. He wouldn't look in the backpack. He wouldn't call Shiro. Technically, he was still keeping them even if he let Pidge tell him everything, but it still felt like a betrayal.

"Does it really matter?" He heard himself asking but his tone was so quiet he didn't know if Pidge could hear him too. "I told him I'd take care of him, and I'm going to do that no matter what. And then he'll be back to his own life and out of ours, and we probably won't even see him again."

"I thought about that," Pidge informed him. "And if I thought it was in any way true, I'd let you go upstairs. But the way you look at each other. . . . the way he follows you, holds on to you."

Lance broke eye contact with her, drained, knowing that she was right, at least partially. Keith did something to him, and there had been something different in how Lance went about treating him. Closer. More intimate. And he liked it. He didn't want Pidge to damage what was happening. He didn't want it to be ruined.

"Did he ever give you a reason why he canceled all your appointments to meet up for that assignment?" Pidge asked, and Lance felt as though he were on top of something high, standing at an apex and about to plummet somewhere deep extremely quickly. He felt Pidge take his hands, taking charge, and he allowed her to pull him back to the couch where they sat together, turned toward each other.

"Lance," she asked again. "Did he ever tell you where he was?"

"In meetings," Lance responded, woodenly, staring at the burgundy paisley patterning of the couch cushions. "He said he was stuck in meetings off campus."

He heard Pidge sigh, preparing to shatter this explanation. He felt his spirit tense up as if she were going to hit him. She kept hold of his hands.

"He was in court, Lance," she told him, ripping off another bandaid. "For the past two weeks, he's been on trial."

"Ok," Lance accepted numbly. That made sense then on why Keith wouldn't know when he'd be finished. On why he had no choice but to miss each meeting they tentatively planned. Why he never really told Lance where he'd been. "For what? Drug possession? Traffic violations?" He threw the suggestions out half-heartedly. Hopefully. He heard Pidge take another breath.

"He's on trial for murder."

Lance pulled his hands back from Pidge, covering his ears but still hearing Keith last night. The ranting after Hunk and Pidge had gone to bed. I'm sorry, he'd sobbed. I didn't mean to. I just wanted him to stop. He wouldn't get off. Please. Shiro. Lance had known that something horrible had happened to Keith, something incredibly traumatic, but he hadn't known it ended that way. With someone actually dying. He didn't want to believe it.

"Maybe it wasn't him," Lance said, but he didn't sound convincing. "Maybe they got the wrong person."

"No, Lance," Pidge went on, her tone so careful. "That's not what the charges are. He's confessed and everything. The court is trying to decide to what degree he should be held accountable – voluntary or involuntary manslaughter. The jury is out right now deciding on the verdict. Keith might be going to prison."

"Might? So there's a chance he might not?" Lance checked, feeling cold despite his proximity to the fireplace. He could see Keith in his memory, standing in their classroom, tight with violence, poised to attack. He saw him sobbing, curled in a ball on his bed. Heard him telling Lance that he didn't know if he was safe, that Lance had no idea what was going on, that there was nothing Lance could do to help. "I mean, it can't be that bad. They let him go to class and stay in his own apartment, right?"

"Lance, you're missing the point. He beat someone to death with his bare hands, do you understand?"

Lance laced his fingers behind his neck, fighting the urge to start rocking back and forth, remembering Keith's hesitant hold on his sleeve, his constant apologies, his tears, his scars. His fear.

"He . . . didn't mean to kill him," Lance heard himself defending Keith. "It was probably an accident. Or self-defense." It might have been that Keith stood up to the person who had hurt him, putting an end to it in the most extreme way possible unintentionally. He'd said that he just wanted him to stop. That he wouldn't get off. Didn't that mean that this could be justified?

"Are you kidding me?" Pidge squeaked. "That makes it even worse! It means he can't control himself. And this wasn't an isolated incident. Keith has a long history of violence. He's been suspended for fighting, kicked out of about three different schools. He's been in the foster system since he was four, but it doesn't seem that any family could handle him for very long – he's changed hands a lot, then ran away and disappeared for a while after getting a driver's license. He tried to get into the Air Force when he turned eighteen, but they wouldn't take him because he spent some time in a juvenile correctional facility for assault. Do you hear what I'm telling you?"

Lance didn't respond. He didn't know how.

"You needed to know," Pidge went on. "Before you get in too deep. He's just not safe, Lance. I don't want him to hurt you."

"He's not going to hurt me," Lance said automatically.

"He already did," Pidge replied. Lance found himself looking up at her questioningly as she cupped a careful hand over the bruise on his face. "He hit you, didn't he?"

Lance felt his breath catch, shocked that she'd figured that out on her own, even though he shouldn't have been all that surprised. "No," he said immediately. "That really was an accident. It was all my fault – I startled him and he was-"

"Don't. Stop it," Pidge broke in, shaking her head harder and harder through the whole explanation. "Do you hear yourself? Do you know what you sound like?" Lance watched, amazed and hurt, as tears rolled down Pidge's face. "You sound like every abuse victim in the history of forever. He punched you in the face, Lance! You! And you're going to blame yourself for that?"

Lance cowered before her, not knowing how to explain. It had been his fault. He'd totally brought that on himself, because he'd thrown that textbook down right next to Keith's head. He'd started it.

"Please," Pidge begged, crawling unexpectedly into his lap, wrapping trembling arms around him and burying her face into his neck. He clung to her, wishing they could come to some understanding just by being physically close. "Please don't let him . . . if something happened to you. . ."

"Nothing's going to happen to me," he whispered, not knowing how he found the words, or his voice. "I'm just trying to heal him, Katie." Because you're worried over nothing. There's nothing between Keith and me.

"Please, let's take him to the hospital," Pidge pleaded, still crying. "You've done enough."

Lance held still, drowning in thoughts. There had to be more to this. He didn't doubt Pidge's facts, just how they'd been presented. Because there was more to Keith than violence. There was a frightened boy who had been consistently abandoned. He was begging for someone to listen to him, to believe him, to stay with him. Lance knew, without a doubt because he'd been there, that he was responsible for the bruise on his cheek. He'd provoked Keith, on purpose. Maybe it had been like that before. Maybe it had always been like that. The scars on Keith's body were real; someone had done that to him intentionally. Someone had taught him about pain. Someone had shown him violence to the point where he probably didn't know how to handle situations without it.

"I really haven't," he said, feeling the truth of it through his whole bloodstream. There was so much more he could do. That he meant to do. If it were true, and Keith was on the verge of being sentenced to prison, then there was plenty that Lance was going to do.

Pidge pulled back, detaching herself from him so she could look at his face. She was a mess. Lance tugged his sleeve over his hand so he could begin wiping her eyes, her cheeks, chin, and neck.

"Lance," she began, but he continued before she could say anything else.

"No," he countered. "It doesn't matter. I'm an EMT; it's not up to me to make judgments. Keith's not on trial with me. I promised him I would take care of him until he's better, and I'm going to keep that promise."

"But . . he _killed_ someone."

Lance cringed in spite of himself. "He was set up," he said, meaning it. From the time he was four years old, Keith had been set up for failure. There was no doubt in Lance about that.

Pidge was staring at him, her mouth open, as if she couldn't understand a single word he said.

"How can you be so stupid?" She asked, and Lance was surprised how much it hurt to hear her say it. He didn't know how he could get her to see what he meant. He turned away from her, sitting still and stubborn. "I hope Keith does go to prison," she went on, fiercely. "Just so you can get away from him in one piece."

"That's awful," he said, horrified, surprised at how eager she was to cast Keith aside. Just like everyone else. "Why would you even say that?"

"I just want to protect you," she protested. "Since you don't seem capable of doing it yourself." He wanted to argue that point. He wanted to tell her that he knew what he was doing, knew what he was getting into. But the truth was he had no idea. The truth was that Keith could be every bit as bad as Pidge suspected. He didn't have enough information. He didn't have Keith's side to this story. And he really couldn't fight Pidge's logic. Or that she was doing this because she cared about him.

"I appreciate that. I appreciate _you_," Lance emphasized. "I love you, Katie."

"Then listen to what I'm saying to you," she tried one last time.

"I am listening," Lance affirmed. "I heard what you said, and I'm thanking you for telling me, but I'm not abandoning him. If he's going to prison, then I want to give him some kindness before he goes. He's so sick, Pidge. Worse than I've ever seen anyone, and I think part of that is because he is so alone. Because no one has ever taken care of him before. Didn't you hear him last night? How many times did he say he was sorry, huh? How many times?"

"Someone is still dead, Lance, no matter how sorry he is. There's still a bruise on your face. Sorry doesn't fix it."

It does for my part, Lance wanted to say, but he knew better.

"You're right," he said instead. Pidge's favorite words. His best bet if he wanted to get anywhere in this conversation. "I'll be careful, ok? He's in no condition to hurt anyone right now; he can't even stand up on his own. He'll . . . he'll be out of the apartment soon enough, right? You won't have to worry about it."

"Too late."

"I'm going upstairs," Lance said, signaling the end to their stalemate. "We're not saying anything to Hunk, right?"

"Of course not," Pidge snapped. "But what are you going to tell him?"

"Do we have to tell him anything? I brought Keith home to get well, and once he's better, he'll be gone. End of story."

"The only person who believes that is you."

"Are you coming with me?" Lance invited, standing and holding out a hand to help her up too. But she was closed to him, cross-legged and cold on the couch. She wouldn't turn her head to look at him, completely disgusted with his choice. He let his hand drop, sad and disappointed. "Suit yourself."

"You're an idiot."

He nodded, doing his best to keep his face expressionless. He'd been told that before too. Though he didn't want to, he left Pidge alone in the dark lounge, heading slowly back to his apartment, but he couldn't really see where he was going. His mind was reeling, and despite how sure he'd made his voice sound to Pidge, he was almost completely undone.

Damn it, Keith! Just when he'd started to think that there was something happening between them. Keith had asked him to recite the poem again. He'd followed Lance to his room to make sure he was ok; he listened as Lance poured his homesick heart out to him. He'd put an ice pack over the bruise on Lance's face. He kept . . . he kept reaching out to hold onto his clothes. He'd cuddled up to Lance's shirt on the bed. How? How had he beaten someone to death? What pushed him that far?

Lance felt a burst of pain in his throat and chest at the same time he heard himself sob in the stairwell. He'd given up his chances with Allura for this? He'd stayed up all night and got into a fight with Pidge for _this_? Pidge was right; he was an idiot. He plopped down on the stairs, emotionally paralyzed, hiding his face in his hands, hating that he cared too much. Every time, he cared too damn much. He'd tried to help a wolf and got bit, and then had the nerve to be surprised about it.

"Lance?" Pidge's voice at the bottom of the stairs. "Oh, no, hey, come on. I'm sorry," her voice broke as it came closer. He didn't pull his hands away from his face to look. Her scent touched him first, followed by her hands as she enveloped him, draping herself over his back. "I'm so sorry."

"Me too," he choked out.

"I didn't want this," Pidge said, petting his hair. "I just thought it would hurt less if you found out sooner."

"Nothing ever hurts less," he said, rather bitterly. Pidge held him tighter.

"There is someone out there for you, Lance," she promised him, a rather empty thing to say given their current situation. "But it's not him." Lance hadn't even realized how much he'd wanted it until Pidge had taken it away. Except she hadn't. She'd just delivered the message. Lance should have known from the beginning. He'd done this to himself, just like he'd practically punched himself in the face. He folded his arms around his knees, tucking his head into the hole, an ostrich in the sand. As small and tight as he could make himself.

"What about Genevieve?" Pidge suggested, kind of desperately, trying to help. Trying to put the bandaid back on the gaping, bleeding wound she'd torn open in Lance's soul. "I know she's interested."

"You said yourself she's a superficial disgrace to the university," Lance challenged, looking at Pidge sideways from the curtain of his arms. But the new topic had given him a chance to breathe again.

"I. . . did say that, didn't I? Well, maybe . . ."

"And that she couldn't keep up with a conversation unless it happened on Sesame Street."

"Ok, wow, geeze, how do you remember all that?"

Because I listen to you, Pidge. Because I respect your opinion. Because you really are the smartest person I know. I just wanted you to be wrong. Just this one time.

"Anyway," Pidge went on, stroking his back now. "You have Hunk and me. We love you." Yeah, but for how long? Lance started pulling himself together; he didn't want Pidge to be upset about this anymore. It wouldn't help, and she couldn't help. He wiped his face, careful of his bruise, and then leaned over to kiss her cheek.

"That's all I need," he said, wishing it were true.

"I'll help you," Pidge offered. "With Keith, I mean. I know promises mean a lot to you. Just please," she hesitated. They were in such a fragile place here and she didn't want to ruin it.

"I'm not falling in love with him," Lance assured her, tried convincing himself.

"Keep telling yourself that."

Pidge kept hold of his arm as he stood from the stairs. She kept it all the way to the apartment, and just as he touched the doorknob, she gripped him extra tight, making him turn to look at her.

"You're not mad at me, right?" She asked.

"No," he replied, honestly. "We're ok, Pidge."

She seemed satisfied with his answer, though neither of them were happy at the situation. But Lance was a systems man, which meant that he was going to continue following protocol, his routine, something he could do without thinking too much, something he could perform without being emotionally invested. He felt his heart cool and close as he opened the apartment door, felt the skin of his face smooth into a calm mask for Hunk's sake. He hadn't meant to bring them into the nightmare that this was turning into. He'd had good intentions asking Pidge for Keith's address. He'd just been trying to help.

Hunk perked up when he heard them coming in the door, but his face fell immediately when he saw them.

"Uh, what happened?" He asked. Pidge and Lance exchanged quick, alarmed glances.

"We took a walk, Hunk," Pidge shrugged, recovering faster than Lance did.

"To where? You guys look exhausted. This feels like one of those time travel movies where you walked out the door, got sucked into some sort of spontaneous wormhole, spent like three months in medieval Europe fighting the crusades and teaching them how penicillin is made and then came back a half an hour after you left because Pidge did something astronomically clever. So is that it?" He stared hard at Pidge. "Did you invent time travel without me? Because we had an agreement."

Lance felt himself tearing up again listening to Hunk's innocent little story, loving how Hunk made it seem completely plausible. As crazy as it sounded, Lance really wished it had been what they'd done when they walked out the door. It kind of would have made more sense to him in a way. He would have much rather invented time travel with Pidge than find out that Keith was a murderer. He had no idea how long that was going to take to really sink in. Maybe never.

"We'd never fight the crusades without you, Hunk," Pidge assured him, so casual about it that Lance wondered how often they talked about this. "Everyone knows you're the best with a sword in Age of Kings." He loved them both so hard in this moment that it hurt.

"Lance?" Pidge called to him, waving a hand from across the room to focus his attention. He'd taken one step into the room and frozen. He hadn't even closed the door. "Aren't you coming?"

He nodded, pulling the door shut, joining them once again at the table.

"So can you," he paused to clear his throat and take a breath. "Can you tell me what this thing is for?" His voice almost abandoned him before he finished the question, and he kept his eyes fixed on the project on the table that had kept them both busy for the past couple weeks. He didn't want Hunk to see the tears still in his eyes, which was silly because he knew that Hunk would pick up on his tattered emotions almost instantly, probably without even having to look at him.

"Lance," Hunk said his name gently, and he knew what was coming. He was going to ask him what was wrong, which would make him fall apart, and he didn't know how he was going to rescue the situation after that.

"It's a radio," Pidge saved him. "Kind of based on the BaoFeng BF-F8HP dual band, but we amped it up, of course." Lance nodded like he understood every piece of what Pidge had just said.

"Um," Hunk cut in softly, but Pidge continued to talk right over him. She was probably staring at him too, letting him know that they were all going to completely ignore Lance's odd behavior. He'd been up all night; he was stressed out, and they were going to give him a pass.

"If it works like it's supposed to," Pidge went on. "We'll be able to talk to the space station, but we need to work on bouncing the signal off a repeater so we can broadcast far enough."

"No, we need to work on the dial mechanism so we can tune in to the right frequency," Hunk protested, and just like that, they went off again, ping-ponging ideas and suggestions off each other with Lance sitting silently in the middle. Before long, one of them made a heated comment that resonated somewhere in the brilliance of the other and suddenly they had a new strategy that was sure to work. Lance rested his head on his hand, calming himself watching them do their thing as the afternoon passed softly under the snowfall, doing his best to let his attention focus completely on what they were doing, deliberately ignoring his time with Pidge in the lounge. He didn't want to think about it. Wished he didn't know.

But his heart kept tugging him towards his room. He had to check on Keith, had to wake him up to drink something, maybe eat something too. He had to, but he was afraid. He didn't know how to act around Keith now, how to keep him from suspecting that Lance had invaded his past so completely. This was something he was going to have to learn, though. If he was going to be a doctor, he'd have to keep his own feelings out of it somehow. He had to be professional. Warm but emotionally distant. Damn it, Keith, why?

Hunk didn't look up when Lance stood to make his way to his room, but Pidge did. They had a moment of mutual understanding, of secret, and she gave him a small nod, acknowledging that even though she didn't agree, she wasn't going to stop him from doing this. The increasing dark as he walked away from the setting sun felt like he was stepping into quicksand instead of into shadow. Not even the soft music of the continued cascades album soothed him. What was he going to say? What was he going to do if Keith grabbed to his sleeve again?

He let himself in, feeling like a stranger in his own room, feeling uneasy and defeated. But then he saw Keith on his bed and all of that stripped away in an instant. He suddenly didn't care what Pidge had said or even what Keith had done. Lance felt that he'd been punished enough already. He'd suffered so much.

"Keith?" He called to him gently, kneeling at the side of the bed and reaching over to shake him awake. Keith was shivering under the quilt, still burning up, his face tight with pain. He was doing the held breath thing again, a disquieting length of time between shaky inhales. "Keith, wake up."

Keith's eyes opened, then almost immediately rolled back into his head for a moment before focusing with difficulty on Lance's face. Lance felt the muscles in his back tighten in preparation for an emergency. Keith winced, trying to sit up, gasping.

"Wait a minute," Lance soothed, not liking what he was seeing. "Just stay down."

"I can't breathe," Keith panted, scared and desperate, which spurred Lance into motion. He took hold of Keith's arm, helping to ease him upright, while he maneuvered himself behind him on the bed, leaning against the wall and pulling Keith down against his chest in a reclined position to open his chest cavity, noticing that Keith was breathing, just shallowly. Somewhere under normal but not quite as fast as hyperventilation.

"Lay your head back," he commanded. "But not too far, just enough to keep your airway straight. You can breathe; you're just doing it too fast. Slow it down. Deep breaths like we talked about before."

Keith struggled with his breathing, trying to do what Lance said. Lance reached around to test his pulse, which he couldn't really feel in his wrist so he switched to his neck. It was thrumming, speedy as a hummingbird. Was this because he'd woken him up? Lance had never seen anything like this before. . . . outside of a heart attack.

Just as Lance was opening his mouth to call for some help, he heard Keith take what sounded like a double inhale, as in he could actually hear a second pull that seemed to inflate Keith's lungs properly and completely. It made Keith give an involuntary exclamation of relief. His next breath seemed more normal. Lance felt Keith's heart rate begin to slow under his fingers. He rested his head against Keith's neck.

"What the hell was that?" Lance whispered.

"I was hoping," Keith panted, "that you could tell me." Lance unconsciously pulled Keith closer to him, hardly noticing when Keith reached a hand up to cling to Lance's wrist as he moved it from Keith's neck to his chest.

"That's the problem," Lance murmured. "I don't know." He hated admitting it, but it was true. They stayed still together for a while longer, both of them breathing hard in the aftermath. Lance's brain was sparking, flipping through pages, switching through lectures at the speed of light. He knew what he needed. He needed another oxygen reading, another blood pressure test. He needed to compare the numbers to what they'd been an hour ago. He needed Coran to call him with the test results. And he needed to listen to Pidge and take Keith in to the hospital. It no longer had anything to do with what Keith had done and everything to do with his condition. But first, Lance waited. Waited until Keith's breathing matched his own, waited until he could feel Keith's pulse in his wrist again. Waited until he was calm and relatively still under his hands.

"How are you feeling, Lobito?" He asked quietly, noticing a quick spike in heart rate when he spoke. Keith groaned.

"Like shit," he answered, the first time he'd ever not held back about it. Lance would have been proud of him if he hadn't been so worried.

"I'm sorry, Keith," Lance apologized. For failing him. For not being able to do what he said he would do. For everything that had happened to Keith before Lance met him and everything that could happen to him after he left this apartment. "Listen. . . I know it's not how you wanted it, but I think it's time we –"

He never got to finish. Hunk rushed into the room without knocking, surrounded by a sense of urgency. He didn't even pause to see Lance supporting Keith on the bed. It made Lance tense. What now?

"Lance?" Hunk called, as if he expected him not to be there. "You need to come. The Resident Dean is here looking for you."

The what? The Resident Dean? The guy whose e-signature came on every official notice for the building regarding rent rates and policy changes? Craig . . .something or other? Lance couldn't even remember if that was his first or his last name. What could he possibly want with Lance? They'd never met each other.

"Can he come back later?" Lance requested. "We need to get Keith –"

"Sorry, Lance," Hunk interrupted. "You really need to come. Like right now."

Keith fidgeted, trying to get off Lance so he could get up. Something that Lance absolutely did not want to do.

"Take it easy. You don't have to move," Lance told him. If the Dean wanted to talk to him, he could come in here. Lance was busy. This was important. Vital maybe. But it seemed he was the only one who thought that. Keith continued to shift away, and now Hunk was helping him.

"Go on, Lance," Hunk demanded. Something he rarely did. He was sitting on the bed, easing Keith into his side, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "There's a police officer with him."

Lance stood up, drenched in sudden apprehension. He locked eyes with Keith for a second, staring at him hard. Could this have anything to do with . .. no, how could it? Still. Keith shied into Hunk, terrified. This was too much. Everything was moving way too fast. Lance's talk with Pidge, Keith's scary breathing episode, the Dean. The police? When had this become his life? How was he going to sort it out?

"Keith, you ok?" Lance checked, unwilling to leave him for any reason.

"I've got him, Lance," Hunk assured, and while Lance didn't doubt his sincerity, he did doubt his ability. If Keith did that again, or something worse, Hunk would panic. He would have no idea what to do. Lance didn't even know if he knew what to do anymore.

"Go," Keith seemed to be begging him to see what was going on rather than giving him permission. "It's ok." But it really wasn't. None of this was ok.

"I'll be right back," Lance promised. "You keep calm. Keep breathing."

Keith nodded weakly as Hunk shielded him in his arms. Lance backed out of the room, keeping his eyes on Keith until he had no choice but to turn. He wiped his hands down his hips, as if he could brush off anxiety that way. He tried to breathe in some sort of calm. You're the Incident Commander in Charge, he reminded himself. Start acting like it! He straightened his spine, lengthened his stride, and marched purposefully to the door.

**Author's Note: Everyone ok? I know – it's really not ok. I confess, I . . cried writing this chapter. And I'm a hardened, embittered old woman who hardly ever cries while reading. . . and certainly never while writing my own stuff. I blame Lance. (Because I cannot blame Keith, not for anything, the poor lamb . . er . . wolf.)**

**Let me know how you're doing, yeah? **


	10. Hypotension

**Author's Note: Sorry, everyone, I know last chapter was hard and what on earth am I doing to your poor darling Keith? Take heart – it's not over yet. We don't have all the information. Keith hasn't told his side of the story yet. Sadly, he will not be telling his side of the story for a while. He's going to be busy this chapter doing other things . . . like staying alive. Enjoy!**

**Chapter Ten: Hypotension**

Several details came to Lance's notice almost simultaneously as he stepped into the living room. The first was Pidge, standing awkwardly, almost shyly, at the dining room table, steadying herself on it with a hand, for once appearing to Lance at her actual height. It hit him hard how tiny she really was, and he felt a pang of brotherly devotion for her. I'm here, he nodded at her. I'll take care of it. Whatever's going on here; you're safe with me.

Relief smoothed Pidge's face as Lance joined them, something familiar in this new and frightening situation. She also looked pointedly innocent. Lance could see that she wanted him to understand that she had nothing to do with this. While she suspected what was happening, she was not responsible for bringing it about. Lance held out a calming hand to her, a soothing gesture from a few steps away. He knew that. He didn't blame her.

The last big thing Lance noticed after his rapid exchange with Pidge was that in addition to Dean Craig and the officer, there was a third person standing just outside the open doorway to the apartment. He could see how Hunk missed him, positioned behind the other two and wearing black, giving no visual clues as to who he might be or why he might be here. Lance met all their eyes one after the other, trying to look like he had nothing to hide, and he wondered why he felt so guilty when he had nothing to feel guilty about and he didn't even know for sure why all these people were suddenly looking for him.

Because they had asked for him, specifically. Hunk said that they'd asked for him. Not Keith. This might be completely unrelated. Except Lance knew that it wasn't. Somehow, this had everything to do with Keith. The atmosphere in the apartment seemed suddenly charged, full of static electricity, as Lance came to a stop just past the coffee table, putting himself in the middle of the room, hopefully into a position of authority. You have nothing to hide, he reminded himself. You've done absolutely nothing wrong. Just get this over with so you can get Keith some help. Who knew what was going on back in his bedroom, how Keith was doing? He'd looked so scared, which would be detrimental to his heart rate.

The Dean came forward first to meet Lance, acting as the mediator in the exchange, arm extended as if he wanted to shake hands. Lance wanted to fold his arms and tuck into himself for protection, but that would clearly send a wrong message, so he forced himself to close the distance, take one unhurried step forward, and shake the Dean's hand as if they were old friends instead of meeting in person for the first time right this second. He noticed how the Dean's eyes shifted to his cheek and then quickly away again, very pointedly trying to pretend like he hadn't noticed anything unusual about Lance's face. Lance was grateful that at least they weren't going to have to talk about _that._

"Sorry to disturb you," the Dean apologized, his voice betraying that he may live in Chicago now, but he'd grown up much farther south. He was as tall as Lance, pale and bald, with striking ice-blue eyes. Lance decided from the grip of his handshake and his tone that he genuinely meant it, that he was just as ruffled about this as Lance was. That he was not at all comfortable about escorting policemen into his resident apartments. He pulled Lance closer to rest his other hand on his shoulder, touching heads with Lance and whispering in his ear. "I don't know what's going on here, but I suggest you cooperate; they have a warrant. I had to let them come up."

It was all Lance could do to not react to this helpful, though almost threatening, little tip. Was it supposed to be friendly? Lance felt a nervous smile creep onto his face, his defense mechanism switching on, his fingertips tingling with adrenaline.

"Are you Lance McClain?" The police officer asked, executing a perfect dominance posture, filling the doorway, obscuring the mysterious third man still standing outside in the hall.

"The one and only," Lance answered, trying to be casual, a test of his voice. A little shaky. He'd have to firm it up.

"Mind if we come in and ask you a few questions?" The officer continued, following standard language and protocol, sounding like every cop television show Lance had ever seen. He looked the part too. He was also tall and lean like Dean Craig, though younger, maybe mid-forties, sandy hair buzzed close to his head, the very picture of an Honorary Aryan. He offered his badge for Lance to read – Officer Frederick Guist, CPD. Lance wanted to tell him to leave, that he was too busy just now to answer anything.

"Uh, sure," he heard himself agree, voice still shaky, confused, remembering the warrant. Just get this over with. Keith is waiting. "Are you guys from ICE? Is this about my visa? Because I just renewed it last September. I can get you the paperwork if you need to –" Because he didn't want this to be about Keith. He didn't want to deal with this right now, not when Keith was in his bedroom, thinking he couldn't breathe, not when he hadn't had a chance to check his stats yet.

Officer Guist ignored his nervous chatter, began talking over him as if he also just wanted to get this over with. "We're looking for a missing person – Keith Kogane. His phone records indicate that you were the last to correspond with him. We understand that you were to meet him last Thursday evening at eight thirty pm. Did you see Mr. Kogane at that time and do you have any information as to where he might be right now?"

Dean Craig had moved out of the line of fire now that the interrogation had officially started, standing closer to Pidge, looking concerned. Pidge looked apprehensive, despite how she'd expressed her desire for Keith to be taken away to prison such a short time ago. Lance knew she hadn't really meant it. Not when the reality of that was standing here in the apartment, badge, belt, gun, and all.

"He didn't meet me at the library. He never showed," Lance answered, telling the truth the wrong way again. He saw Pidge's eyes widen across the room.

"And do you have any information as to where he might be now?" The officer repeated, not accepting that Lance had only answered half the questions.

"What do you want with him?" Lance checked, wanting to find out their true intentions here. Because Keith could not be arrested right now. Lance had to protect him from that. Surely, they would have some compassion for him if Lance told them what sort of shape he was in? That he needed medical attention; he needed to be treated gently, professionally, and soon. The officer stared at him, hard, uncompromising, making it clear that he absolutely would not understand.

"Go ahead and tell him, Fritz," the man in black said quietly, a deep, surprisingly reassuring sound. The good cop? But he wasn't in uniform. Or maybe he was; Lance couldn't really see him yet as he was still keeping back in the hall. Officer Guist shrugged, like this was the least important thing he had been assigned to do today, letting Lance know that the person really in charge here was the one he couldn't see.

"Mr. Kogane is required to present himself at the Circuit Court of Cook County on Monday, January twenty-first, at ten am," Officer Guist rattled off, as if he were reading something. "I am legally obligated to deliver to Mr. Kogane the official summons for a sentencing hearing at that time, but was unable to locate him at his last known address and have been unsuccessful in reaching him by phone. Can you give me any information as to where he can be located?"

A summons. For the verdict. That meant the jury had decided about the murder. Lance felt a flash of heat bolt down his back and the room got slightly hazy for a second. Almost as if he were the one on trial.

"You're not going to arrest him or anything like that?" Lance asked, knowing his questions were weird, knowing that this would give him away that he did know where to find Keith. They were probably suspicious already, though. But if all they needed to do was give him a court summons . . . no, Lance still didn't want them to see him. The shock wouldn't be good for him right now.

"Not at this time; however, if Mr. Kogane fails to appear, a warrant for his arrest will be issued and he will be cited for contempt of court."

"But if he doesn't know about the hearing, how is he supposed to show up?" Lance asked, surprising himself with his own audacity, making Officer Guist tilt his head to the side, his nostrils actually flaring in impatience. Lance couldn't even blame him; he knew he was being difficult. He also knew that Officer Guist was his least favorite person in the room right now, even though he was just trying to do his job. He didn't know that Keith hadn't abandoned his apartment on purpose. He didn't know that he was in so much pain, that he was so scared. The problem was he also didn't care. The problem was he identified Keith as a murderer, as a runaway, someone trying to hide from the consequences of his actions. And he likely wouldn't change that opinion even if Lance told him the truth or the current situation. He might even feel as though Keith deserved it. That's what was making Lance hate him.

"It is the responsibility of Mr. Kogane to notify the court of any contact information changes including new phone numbers and addresses, whether temporary or permanent," Officer Guist explained, coldly. "As he is well aware. If you cannot give us any information of his whereabouts and I am unable to speak with him, then the documentation I left at his last known address will serve as sufficient notice and he will be held accountable for appearing at the appointed time."

That actually sounded good to Lance. He had the details now; he could pass the message to Keith – later, when he was settled and safe in the hospital with proper meds and monitoring equipment, when there was a whole staff available to help Lance if something were to happen. Lance wondered if Keith would be required to "present himself" in court if he were still in the hospital on Monday morning at ten am. He wondered if a doctor's note was good enough to postpone a sentence hearing, and for how long. He was certain Coran would write him one. He wanted more time before Keith was sentenced for him to heal, for Lance to understand what had happened. He hadn't even had a chance to talk to him about it yet.

"I guess we're done then," Lance heard himself say, steady and clear. Because he sure as hell was not allowing this officer and his shady bodyguard anywhere near Keith, despite his assurance that he wasn't there to arrest him. He was too gruff, too intimidating, apparently merciless, and he was certain to set off Keith's heart. "If I see Keith, I'll tell him to check his messages." Tell the truth – tell it slant. Go away now.

"Young man," Officer Guist began, getting terse, and Lance felt his chin lift automatically in response. Every time he'd been "young manned" all his stubbornness came to the surface like oil rising on water, brought out every rebellious gene in his body. "Do you understand that -"

"Fritz? May I?" The shadow man cut in, gently, a hand appearing on the officer's shoulder from behind.

The officer stepped aside to allow his partner entry with a sort of 'be my guest' kind of flourish, looking at Lance rather roughly, a little bit threatening, as if to say that Lance was in for it now. Though the voice from the hall had been soothing, Lance felt as though he'd made a big mistake as the unidentified man came into the light of the apartment, into full view. He was almost as tall and broad as Hunk, but cut, broad shouldered but narrow waisted, and he had military written all over him from his hairstyle to the way he moved, though he was wearing civilian clothes, a simple black sweater and jeans. His features were vaguely Asian, disfigured slightly by two scars - one that dipped into his right eyebrow and one that slashed across the upper bridge of his nose. And there was a distinct white streak in his otherwise black hair, right at the center of his forehead. Poliosis, Lance's brain gave him the medical term for that particular coloring. A mostly hereditary physical trait but sometimes it came from illness, stress, or injury. Judging from the scars, Lance would place his bets on the latter. Lance suddenly felt as tall as Pidge, more intimidated by this man than the police officer. What was he going to do now?

The man in black also reached a hand out to Lance, making his insides squirm as he noticed that his right arm was missing and that he was extending a prosthetic. Lance forced himself to put his hand out even though it felt like he was purposefully exposing himself to something dangerous, like a lion or a loaded bear trap, watching as his skin was enveloped in smooth carbon fiber. Extremely smooth, and not the least bit clumsy. Wow. Lance found himself suddenly marveling at it as they shook hands. This was not an ordinary prosthetic – it was too elegant, too sophisticated, sleek. Lance wondered where he could have received such a thing and how he'd paid for it. The dexterity in the fingers as they closed around Lance's was fluid enough to write a dissertation on. He could probably thread a freaking needle if he wanted to. If they weren't in a sort of standoff about Keith, Lance thought he would very much like to sit down with this man and learn all about his robotic arm. There was a part of him that wanted to drag him over to Pidge right now so they could both pull back the sweater sleeve and start poking at it. For some reason, it brought to his mind the joke they had tried to put together about their soup – a physician, a physicist, and an engineer walk into a room to make a robotic arm . . . and if that happened, it would have turned out just like this. And it was anything but a joke.

"Holy crow," Lance breathed before he could stop himself, completely awe-struck. "That's beautiful." He bit his tongue before he said anything else embarrassing. Normal people didn't geek out about things like that; it was inappropriate and extremely ill-timed.

To his credit, the man held still, leaving their hands clasped, letting Lance admire his mechanically replaced limb, and he didn't say any of the things that Lance would have said if their positions had been reversed. Stupid, immature, tension-easing things like, "take a picture" or "my eyes are up here." The thought made Lance lift his gaze, finally making eye contact, noticing immediately that the gentleness of this man's voice extended also to his black eyes. The man smiled softly as he realized he finally had Lance's full attention.

"Takashi Shirogane," he introduced himself with an efficient sort of clip, and Lance wondered how much of a struggle it had been for him not to say his rank along with his name. Because he was military, or had been. No doubt. So what was he doing here now, looking for Keith? He released Lance's hand, hiding the distracting prosthetic behind his back, falling automatically into parade rest. "You're Keith's friend?" He sounded kind of hopeful about it.

"I don't really know him," Lance denied. "We have a class together. English. We're partners for an assignment." He paused to look at Officer Guist, who was fiddling with his radio near the door. "But you probably already know all about that."

"From the texts, yes," Takashi nodded, but grew serious quickly, leaning closer and lowering his voice, as if sharing a secret. "Can you tell me if he's all right? I'm really worried about him."

Lance studied Takashi some more, hearing the nuance in what he said. He was nothing like the officer. He was telling the truth; he was invested. Lance found himself wanting to tell him all about it, to share his own worries about Keith with him. He felt that they would understand each other perfectly. But he just couldn't do that. There was too much risk to Keith.

"I . . don't know . . ." Lance stuttered, unsure what to do. He couldn't look at Takashi anymore; he'd run out of half-truths and the heart to say them. He just wanted everyone to leave.

"Please," Takashi went on, earnestly, lifting his hand as if he meant to grab Lance's shoulder, but lowering it again awkwardly as he changed his mind about touching him. "I really need to find him; it's important. Won't you help me?" Me. Not will you help _us_ find him; he'd excluded his companion. He was asking for himself; this was personal to him. Lance wished he'd come alone. The apartment was too crowded right now to communicate properly. There was too much threat in the room, and Keith was so fragile.

"That's complicated," Lance whispered, for only Takashi to hear. "It's not a good time right now." Come back later, without the police, and I'll let you see him. But . . .

"What do you mean?" Officer Guist asked, making Lance realize that even though he didn't look like he was paying attention, he was still entirely focused on what was going on. Lance shot a look over to Pidge, who hadn't moved, hoping she could give him some guidance on what he should do here.

"It's _him_," she mouthed soundlessly to Lance as they made eye contact, but he didn't understand what she meant.

"Do you know where Keith is?" Takashi questioned, a little sharper, pulling Lance's attention away from trying to figure out what Pidge was trying to tell him. It wasn't an unfriendly edge, more like he really wanted to see Keith and couldn't wait any more to find out.

"I just," Lance hesitated, feeling detached and antsy, like he wasn't ready for this. Why couldn't they just leave them alone? "I can't let you see him now." There, Lance might as well have confessed that Keith was here, or at least that he knew where they could find him.

"Why?" Takashi asked, looking at Lance in concern. Disappointed and uneasy.

"Is he here?" Officer Guist said, almost at the same time, sounding angry. Lance held up his hands defensively, wondering how much trouble he was going to be in for deliberately withholding information from law enforcement.

"He . . . he is, but –" Lance faltered, feeling like there wasn't enough air in the room. Hunk and Pidge had once packed over thirty scientists in this very space, triumphantly declaring that the collected IQ of the apartment in that moment was higher than a full session of Congress. You couldn't move in the room without squishing against someone, and still it had felt more open and breathable than it did right now.

Probably because Officer Guist was suddenly looming over him, as near as he could get without touching him, eyes flashing, looking like he wanted to take Lance and shake the information out of him. Surprisingly, Takashi's simple look of pleading was worse.

"Where?" Guist asked, almost growled, so close that Lance could smell that he was chewing cinnamon gum. Lance told himself, quickly and repeatedly, not to cower. He needed to explain himself very quickly, needed to make them understand that they could cause serious complications if they went storming around the apartment. "Take me to him."

"No," Lance denied, still protective even though he was frightened and intimidated. It was a bad move, and he knew it. Knew that they still had a warrant and could search the entire apartment if they wanted to. There wasn't a real reason outside of politeness that they were still standing near the door, giving him one last chance to give them what they wanted. "He just can't . . . let me explain," he begged, hoping he could, hoping they'd let him.

Except he didn't have to. Lance heard Pidge call his name, trying to get his attention, and when he straightened from under Officer Guist's fury to see why, he saw that Takashi was staring, open-mouthed, toward the hallway. Lance checked over his shoulder, half turning, and groaned to see Keith, white-faced and shaking, leaning on the corner where the hall to Lance's bedroom gave way to the open living room space. He'd come to investigate the raised voices, why Lance was taking so long. Again ignoring Lance's instructions to stay where he was, stay still, keep his head down. Hunk was standing behind him. Lance wondered if he'd even tried to keep Keith in the bedroom, but reminded himself that Hunk knew nothing about the trial or anything else. He'd had no reason not to let him come see what was going on.

"Oh, Keith," Takashi moaned in shock and sympathy, just loud enough for Lance to hear. Keith was staring at Takashi, in terrible obvious pain, and Lance saw his lips move. He couldn't hear; he was too far away and Keith might not have even made a sound, but Lance knew what he'd said, had listened to him say it over and over for hours. Shiro.

Of course. Shirogane - Shiro. That's what Pidge meant; she'd figured it out before Lance. It was Shiro, here, searching for Keith even though Keith didn't think he would care, didn't even want to call him. But Shiro had tracked him down anyway. I really need to find him. It's important. I'm worried about him. Is he all right?

Keith was definitely not all right. Lance saw Keith sway, too weak and dizzy to be standing up in the first place and the shock of seeing Shiro suddenly in the apartment was making everything worse, even if he was happy to see him, though Lance couldn't tell if he was or not. But he could see that Keith was seconds from blacking out.

"Keith, sit down," Lance commanded, sharp and immediate, taking charge, not knowing if he'd have enough time to get to his side. "On the floor. You sit down right now."

It didn't look like Keith heard him. He continued to stare, hard, at Shiro, his speeding breaths visible in his diaphragm. Then Lance watched his vision go unfocused, watched him start blinking rapidly, shaking his head a little as if to clear away the hot buzzing of his crashing consciousness. Lance darted for him, hoping to make it in time to catch him, but Officer Guist grabbed his arm. Not because Lance was doing anything wrong, just that it had been programmed into the officer to immediately restrain anything that moved in a fast, unpredictable way. He let Lance go almost immediately as he realized what Lance was trying to do, but just that tiny delay was too much. Keith was already falling.

"Hunk!" Lance yelled across the room, but Hunk had not been blessed with a quick reaction time, and Keith was falling forward, away from him. He made a clumsy, too-slow attempt and missed.

Lance made a desperate jump across the room, sort of like a baseball player diving to catch a ball, colliding with Keith on his way down, Keith's head hitting Lance squarely in the chest and knocking them both to the floor. They crashed against the coffee table, shoving it across the carpet. A corner caught Lance in the back as he fell, scraping a long, painful gash into his skin through his shirt the entire way down. He grunted, but the only thing he was really focused on was cushioning Keith's head and neck. They landed awkwardly against the shifted table; Keith unmoving, hot and heavy across Lance's torso. Lance floundered, pinned painfully on the corner of the table, trying to get them upright, get out from under Keith so he could see what sort of shape he was in, see what he needed to do to get him conscious again.

Shiro turned out to be the fastest responder in the room, coming immediately to help lift the unconscious Keith from off Lance, who scrambled to his knees, ignoring whatever the coffee table had done to his back to see what Keith's status was, realizing that the decline that had started earlier in the bedroom had progressed to something critical. Adrenaline pulsed into Lance's system in a fire hose rush, and he got ready to use it. Incident Commander in Charge.

Lance allowed Shiro to keep hold of Keith and began calling out instructions. "Sit him up, no, _ up_; keep pressure off his chest." He started pulling on them, rearranging them to his specifications, grabbing Shiro's artificial arm without thinking what he was doing and bringing it across Keith's collarbone, above his heart, leaning Keith forward over it in a tripod stance to ease his breathing. Shiro instinctively brought his other hand around Keith's forehead to keep his face from dropping too far forward. Lance nodded appreciatively. "Hold him steady like that; make sure his airway stays clear. Don't let his head fall. Hunk – my bag, please. Pidge, bring me a cold wet dishtowel. You!" He barked the last at Officer Guist, who was standing off to the side, coming to terms with what the hell was going on in front of him. "Call an ambulance."

"Keith," Shiro was calling tenderly to the boy in his arms while Lance gave orders to almost every person in the room. "Oh God, you're burning up." Lance felt a hand on his arm and knew it was Pidge, so he reached up without looking to accept the wet towel, wrapping it around Keith's throat. He was about to ask for another one when Keith opened his eyes, coming back from his faint and beginning to struggle against the hands that held him, disoriented and terrified.

"Don't move," Lance told him, firm, placing a restraining hand on his back at the same time Shiro tightened his hold. Lance settled his fingers against Keith's carotid artery, noticing the irregular pound of Keith's heart, full throttle arrhythmia. Not good. "You passed out and fell." And it was the worst thing you could have done. It was like he'd broken something by losing consciousness, as if the only thing keeping him this side of critical had been his own stubborn resolve. Now that he'd fainted, he was crashing. Lance was surprised he'd been able to regain consciousness at all. "We've got you. It's going to be ok."

"Lance," Keith said, breathless, weak, hurting, and frantic. "Lance . . . something's wrong."

Lance registered a thump at his side – Hunk putting the med bag within reach. He hurriedly pulled the blood pressure cuff and the pulse oximeter out, strapping them to Keith as quickly as he was able.

"I know," he assured, trying to sound steady and calm, looking at the oxygen reading, waiting for the cuff to finish deflating. He'd only seen this kind of thing happen once before, to an elderly woman he'd picked up in the ambulance from a dialysis center. It had something to do with dehydration. She'd completely bottomed out; they hadn't been able to save her. Lance checked the oximeter. Keith's level had dropped to ninety percent. Shit. "I'm going to fix it. It's your heart; remember we talked about your heart and relaxing? You need to do that now. Breathe as deep as you can for me, yeah? Your heart needs some help, so you need to give it more oxygen to work with. And stay calm." Next the blood pressure reading – 80 / 50. Damn it.

"Lance," Keith begged, trusting him. Lance tried to think. Keith's pulse was close to 140 beats a minute, but speeding up with every passing second; he was deteriorating way too fast. His numbers weren't matching the dialysis patient yet, but they weren't that far off. Lance reminded himself that he needed to stay calm too. "Lance, I can't breathe."

"You can," Lance told him, filling his voice with certainty. "There's nothing wrong with your lungs; you understand me? They're clear. They're working just fine. So you just keep focusing on taking deep breaths and stay awake. Ok? Stay with me." Please, please stay with me. Lance knew that Keith probably felt as though he were drowning right now. The ineffectual beats of his heart were weakly pumping blood throughout his body, resulting in the lowered blood pressure, and also decreased oxygen to his organs. Keith's brain was receiving screaming signals from everything that used blood that something was not working, that there was no air. Lance couldn't imagine how terrifying that would be, or how he would possibly stay calm in such a situation. But Keith was doing his best, both his hands clenched in fabric, Shiro's shirt on one side and the hem of Lance's on the other.

"Fritz," Shiro called sharply to the officer. "Where's that ambulance?"

"Three minutes out," Guist responded.

"Will someone go down and let them in?" Lance asked. Dean Craig looked more than willing to leave, his face almost as pale as Keith's.

"On it," he said, dashing for the hallway. One less person in the room, though at this point, it didn't matter anymore.

"Hunk," Lance called without taking his eyes off Keith, knowing that his roommate was standing somewhere close, watching, freaked out. "I need some pickle juice in a cup." Then he remembered about Keith's mouth, all the fever blisters. It would be agonizing for him to drink it, but it was the only thing Lance could think of that might help keep his blood pressure up while they waited for the ambulance, might keep Keith from going into complete cardiac arrest. "And a straw if you have one."

Lance could feel Shiro's gaze on him, hard and wondering, hopeful but not quite trusting. He knew it sounded crazy, but the pickling brine was as close as they were going to get to a chemical defibrillator. What Lance really needed was supplemental oxygen and Bretylium, but that was on the ambulance.

"Lance," Keith panted, his voice raising in pitch, twitching in distress, getting panicky. Lance recognized the movements, again using the previous patient as a reference. Keith's muscles were cramping up from the lack of oxygen and fluids.

"Listen to me, Lobito," Lance ordered, putting his head close to Keith's so he'd be sure to hear him. "I know it's really painful and scary right now, but you've got this. I promise, you're going to be fine, but you need to stay calm. I've got oxygen coming for you; it'll be here any second. Hang on."

"Here," Hunk said from right behind Lance's vision, handing the cup to him over his shoulder. He'd even managed to find a straw. Best wingman ever. Lance snatched it as fast as he could without spilling any, the tang of it sharp in his nose.

"Keith, I'm going to have you drink this. It's going to hurt like hell, but we need to keep your blood pressure from dropping anymore and it'll help with the cramping." He held the straw to Keith's mouth, actually poking him in the lip because his eyes were closed tight against the pain he was already in. Keith opened his mouth and obediently used his next panting breath to suck up some of the salty brine.

And immediately gagged on it, his entire system shocked by the extreme taste and the burn of the salt. Most of the mouthful ended up on the carpet and Lance's thigh. Keith coughed thickly, and Lance worried that he might have just made everything worse.

"No, you don't; don't you dare throw up. Keith, I need you to breathe. Take a second," Lance paused, but not for very long, watching Keith attempt to swallow the taste of the juice out of his mouth, doing his absolute best not to vomit, distracting him by patting him on the back at steady intervals. The pace he wished his heart was beating. "Ok, now that you've got that out of the way," Lance went on after it looked like Keith were as recovered as he was going to get, as if it had been no big deal and he'd expected it. "Let's try again."

"I can't," Keith whimpered, drawn up tight in Shiro's arms, releasing Lance so he could cling to Shiro's sleeve across his chest. "Lance, I can't." I know, Keith. I know this is really hard and you're scared to death. I know I'm asking you to do something that makes no sense to you, but you keep calling my name because you trust me, because you are expecting me to make this better, and this is all I've got.

"The only thing you can't do is give up," Lance encouraged, but not so gently. "Now try again." You've got to.

Keith's head drooped, exhausted by the frantic beating of his heart, by his own panting, by the pain. But his blood pressure was still dropping. Just when Lance thought he'd have to tip Keith's head back and spoon feed him strawfuls of pickle juice, he weakly drew up another mouthful. And this time he was prepared for how awful it would be and kept it down, swallowing with difficulty.

"Again," Lance ordered, after allowing him to take a couple rest breaths.

Keith managed to keep down another half dozen swallows of pickle juice before the paramedics arrived, wincing each time, sort of crying about it though there were no tears. Lance continued to ignore everyone in the room, especially Shiro even though he knew he was staring at him and wanted Lance to make eye contact with him. But he just didn't have the time; he needed to keep Keith from crashing. The pickle juice seemed to ease the cramps in a rapid ninety seconds, and Keith's numbers weren't going down anymore. But they weren't coming up either, and Keith's heart was still racing dangerously. He really needed that Bretylium.

Even when the paramedics showed up, Lance didn't waste time on them either. He knew them. Grayson Tanner and Stefany Lopez, both also med students, but much farther along in their courses. Lance always learned a lot when he rode the ambulance with them. Grayson knew everything there was to know about wound care, bleeding, and shock – specializing in gang shootings. Sometimes he was called out for drive-by incidents outside of his normal area, especially if there was more than one person involved. He seemed to be on friendly terms with just about everyone, which was comforting as he was tall, strong, and looked as though he might be packing a gun himself. He went confidently into situations that quite honestly freaked Lance out, not the patients they picked up, just the places they had to go to get them.

Meanwhile Stefany was the best ambulance driver on staff; everyone knew it. She knew every shortcut and tiny alley that she could just barely scrape the vehicle through without breaking off the mirrors. She also had a perfect mind for systems, procedures, and medications.

When they teamed up together, Grayson did the heavy lifting while Stefany directed him and it worked extremely well. And Lance knew this, had watched them do it. And yet he found himself unwilling to step out of the scenario and yield to their direction. He didn't want to back out of the way for Grayson, didn't want to wait for Stefany to figure out what to do. So he decided to stay in it, take charge himself, even though they were in uniform and he wasn't, even though they technically outranked him. He was the student and they were his trainers and he had been fine with that on every op except this one. He knew Keith's history. He'd been first on scene. Keith kept calling his name.

"Oxygen and mask," he requested before they were truly in the door, still on his knees next to Keith, who was taking those awful gasping breaths and holding them again.

"Lance?" Grayson wasted time expressing his surprise to find him here.

"Oxygen," Lance demanded again, snapping his fingers, and this time Grayson moved to do as he was told. "Where's the stretcher?"

"It wouldn't fit in the elevator," Stefany responded. "The building's old." She was poised with a clipboard, ready to write down stats. Didn't Officer Guist explain to them the situation they were walking into? Why were they moving so slow?

"Fine," Lance snapped, though it was totally not fine. He didn't want to have to carry Keith downstairs. Knew Keith wouldn't want to be carried.

"Tell me what's going on here, Lance," Stefany invited.

"Male patient, eighteen," Lance told her, quickly, watching as she started scribbling down the history. He kept talking as he accepted the oxygen mask from Grayson and began attaching it securely to Keith's face and cranking the flow all the way up to fifteen liters a minute. "This will help, Lobito." Somehow Shiro took the pickle juice and handed it off to someone, but Lance wasn't paying attention as to where it went. He continued talking. "Temperature – 103.3, blood pressure 75 over 50, heart rate . . ." he faltered, saying these numbers out loud made it terrifyingly real. But Stefany needed to write this stuff down. He had to say it. "Heart rate 170 beats a minute and irregular. Oxygen saturation level 88 percent – no, wait, ninety."

Somewhere outside of what he was doing, he heard Shiro vocalize distress about the statistics. He knew enough about human anatomy to know that they weren't good. Lance continued without looking at him.

"History of febrile seizure. Suspected influenza, anemia, and dehydration. Symptoms began with fever and fatigue Thursday night and tachycardia on Friday morning which progressed to arrhythmia in the afternoon and now we're looking at extreme hypotension and arrhythmia. Last food intake was a smoothie around ten this morning, last fluid intake was Gatorade around one pm and just now roughly half a cup of pickle brine. No allergies to medications, and the last medication given, again at one, was 400 mg of Ibuprofen."

Now let's get on with it, he thought, watching Keith. His eyes were closed, concentrating, sucking in greedy breaths of oxygen, still conscious, though trembling hard, lying limp against Shiro. Grayson had replaced Lance's personal blood pressure cuff with the one from the ambulance.

"Keith," Lance called to him, taking his hand and squeezing it gently. "You're doing great. We're going to have to move you now; we're taking you to the hospital. I'm going with you, though. I'm riding with you."

He looked around, wondering how they were going to get him safely and smoothly to the ambulance outside. They had no wheelchair, or anything with wheels at all really. Keith absolutely could not walk. As Lance frantically checked his surroundings, he accidentally made eye contact with Shiro, who looked completely desperate. He wanted to help, wanted to do _something_. He looked as though he'd walked into his worst nightmare. Lance felt a tiny prick of sympathy for him.

"I'll take him," Shiro offered, just as Hunk appeared at Lance's side, bending over to hand Lance his quilt from the bed. Great, perfect. Lance accepted it and together with Shiro, began wrapping Keith up, warm and secure. He was slipping into shock, even with the oxygen supplement.

"You sure?" Lance asked, wondering if it were a good idea to let a man with a missing arm be responsible for carrying Keith.

"I've got him," Shiro promised, and Lance didn't doubt him anymore. "I'm here, Keith," Shiro told him, his voice low, intimate. "I'm going to pick you up; hold on."

Keith wrapped his arms around Shiro's neck, weak, frightened, and shivering, resting his head against Shiro's chest as if he were a child. Grayson helpfully kept the oxygen tank level with Keith as Shiro stood up, though he looked doubtful, switching his gaze back and forth between Lance and Stefany.

"No, Sir, you can't carry him. Lance, you know we can't allow –" Stefany began, but stopped as Lance glared at her. Of course he knew. Shiro was not medically trained, at least to their knowledge. He could drop Keith, injure him further, and they would be liable because they had allowed it to happen. But right this second, Lance trusted Shiro more with Keith than he did anyone else in the room. Even he couldn't carry him as safely as Shiro could, and he also knew that Keith would rest easier in Shiro's arms than if anyone tried a tandem carry.

"Go on," Lance told Shiro, pushing Grayson a little so he'd be sure to follow despite what Stefany was saying. "There's no time." Shiro nodded, striding forward in a secure march. Grayson looked pained but followed with his gear.

"Lance, what do you think you're doing?" Stefany growled at him, but he didn't care. Officer Guist was on his way out too, following Shiro, speaking into his radio. Stefany watched him walk past with her mouth open, as if she were ready to make an official report about Lance's abandonment of protocol right this second. In the end, she turned back to him. "You better get in line or you're not getting in my ambulance."

"I'm going with him," Lance countered fiercely, not making any promises about any future broken protocol. He was going to do what was best for his patient. "And it's not your ambulance. Now let's go; we're wasting time."

Stefany's lips slammed together as if holding back all the sharp words she suddenly wanted to say but couldn't because she was a paramedic on duty and she knew that they were wasting precious seconds standing here arguing about procedure. She spun on her heel and started jogging after the others. Lance was right behind her until he heard his name called sharply from behind.

His living room looked small in the aftermath, darker and empty. Pidge and Hunk came up to him, looking stricken, not used to emergencies and especially not used to watching Lance handle them, but despite being afraid, their hands were full of offerings for Lance to take with him. Pidge held out his coat while Hunk had his backpack. Lance smiled at them gratefully, his heart full of pride and love.

"You guys are the best," he acknowledged. "I'm really sorry to put you through all this. I'll call with an update as soon as I can."

"Be careful," Pidge told him, unsure but knowing there would be no talking him out of going where ever Keith went. Hunk looked like he wanted to say something, but he was too shocked to make a sound. His face was wet, covered in frightened, worried, overwhelmed tears, and he squeezed Lance's arm on his way out the door, putting everything he wanted to say into the pressure.

"Thanks, guys," Lance said, closing the door and dashing down the hall to catch up with everyone. The elevator was already on the first floor; they hadn't waited for him, but he hadn't expected them to. He flew down the stairs, almost tripping as he skipped as many as safely possible, meeting up with them out front of the building as they were strapping Keith securely onto the stretcher, the backrest tipped up so he could recline instead of lie flat. He still had his eyes closed, as if he were pretending that none of this were happening to him, his chest rising and falling in a slow and heavy way, as if each breath were a difficult, dedicated effort. Grayson was finishing with the bindings while Stefany was telling Shiro off for ignoring her instructions, venting her frustrations about Lance. Officer Guist remained a shadowy witness to the proceedings.

When the time came to transfer the stretcher into the back of the vehicle, Lance was right there on one side with Grayson on the other. Stefany shot him a look as he took what should have been her place, and they had a quick stare down.

"I'm going with him," Lance reminded her, knowing that she might not like it, knowing she might hate him right now, and knowing absolutely that there would be a disciplinary meeting with someone about what he was doing. But that was so far away. Lance wasn't thinking too much about all of those things. Mostly he was focused on Keith's next breath, on his next heartbeat. "Don't try to stop me," he threatened, watching her eyes go wide in insult and fury. He felt Keith's trembling hand on his sleeve, gripping him as much as he could, making him turn away from Stefany, though he knew that she was noticing Keith's hand too. "I'm here, Lobito," he told him. "Right here with you."

"Just follow protocol," Stefany growled at him, headed for the driver's side door. Lance didn't take the time to feel triumphant about this, just nodded to Grayson so they could finish getting the stretcher secured inside.

"Shiro, come on," Lance called out the back of the ambulance. Shiro was standing close to Officer Guist, conversing rapidly with their heads together, but jerked his head up when Lance called him, when he used the name that Keith did. Lance leaned down, holding his hand out to Shiro to help him up.

"I'll meet you there," Officer Guist said, turning away towards his patrol car. Shiro grabbed Lance's offered wrist and hauled himself into the back of the ambulance. Grayson pulled the doors closed and Lance tapped the back window to signal to Stefany that they were clear to move. Then he shifted his focus back to Keith.

"I'm starting an IV line," Lance told Grayson, knowing he could have it ready in the minutes it would take to drive the two miles to the campus hospital. Because things like that were easier to do with a conscious patient, because who knew what would happen during the drive, and he wanted it to be ready and waiting to connect to saline and Bretylium the second they got there. While the antiarrhythmic drug could be administered via a muscular injection, the delay in effect was almost two hours longer than if it was administered via IV. Lance didn't want Keith to have to wait that long, didn't think he could. He also knew that Grayson wasn't the best at IVs, they were in a moving vehicle, and Keith's veins were not great.

"I don't think so, Lance, you heard –" Grayson started, but Lance already knew he wasn't on duty, and he wasn't cleared to place IVs even if he were. He had heard what Stefany said, but he also knew that Keith needed every minute he could give him.

"Can you just stick to what you're good at, treat him for shock, and shut up?" Lance returned, already pulling an IV kit from a cabinet behind his head. "I'm taking full responsibility. Shiro? Come up here by his head. Come talk to him. It'll help if he can hear your voice."

Shiro looked as though he wasn't sure what he should do, sensing the discord, but in the end began to obey Lance.

"You can't take the responsibility; you're just an EMT," Grayson countered, but couldn't actually reach Lance over the stretcher to stop him yet. Shiro made it even more difficult by squeezing between Grayson and the stretcher to get to Keith's head. "I'm the one who will get in trouble."

"Keith?" Lance spoke to the boy in the stretcher, covered in Lance's quilt, who was silently panting. "Drop your hand to the side, ok? Just let it hang here while I get this ready for you." Keith let go of Lance's shirt, letting his hand fall limp to the side as instructed as Lance tightened a tourniquet around his arm just above his elbow. And even though Lance had told him to do it, he jumped a little in alarm to see the hand fall like that, to feel it slip from off his clothes, as though Keith had lost consciousness again. He sped up his prep work, ignoring Grayson, though he could hear him prattling on over there.

"Lance? Lance, don't," Grayson kept entreating. "What are you . . . you're gonna do the hand?"

Yes, he was starting the IV in the hand. Normal ambulance procedure would put it in the crook of the elbow because the veins were larger there and it would be easier to do while moving. But that spot was meant to be temporary, meant to be placed for immediate use upon arrival, or during the transfer if it were long enough. But it wasn't as safe as the hand. Keith could start seizing, which would jerk his arm tight to his body, could break the needle somewhere inside him. It would be more difficult, but the hand was the best location choice, and if Lance was successful, it could be used throughout Keith's entire hospital stay. He'd only have to go through this procedure once. Lance hoped the combined effort of Keith's struggling heart, the tourniquet, and gravity would be sufficient to pool enough blood into the lowered hand to plump up the veins there enough that he could see them.

Grayson used his long arm to its full advantage and reached over Keith to push Lance back, to keep him at bay and away from Keith's veins. "Come on, Lance, stop it, I'm not playing with you." Lance glared at him.

"No one's playing," Lance clipped. "Are you telling me that you don't agree this is the best choice?"

"If we were still, it would be," Grayson allowed. "But we're moving and you aren't cleared to do it anyway."

"I'll clear him," Shiro spoke up from his position of protection at Keith's head. Keith also had lifted the hand closest to Grayson, blindly fumbling for his arm that blocked Lance and trying to pull it away. "Do what you need to do," he said to Lance. They shared a look of trust, gratitude, and expectation, and Lance nodded, hoping that Shiro's faith in him was not misplaced. Grayson reluctantly backed off, muttering something about Lance getting him fired. While Lance knew that was a possibility, he also knew it would be less likely if Keith didn't die. And that would be less likely if he could get this IV going as soon as possible.

Lance gently took Keith's hand, keeping it low against his thigh, trying to get his head in the moment, trying to ignore anything outside of Keith's hand – Grayson, Shiro, the siren above them, Keith's upcoming sentencing. The horrible idea that Keith could die before he could be sentenced. No. Lance tightened his concentration another notch, studying the problem in front of him and the best way to come at it. The angle was weird; he'd never done it this way before, and not in a jostling vehicle. But Keith could hardly breathe, his body was not getting the oxygen it needed. He was crashing and slipping away, so Lance proceeded, dismissing immediately the dorsal venous arch on top of the hand. No need to take unnecessary risks. He'd use the cephalic vein located at the wrist below the thumb, the place commonly known as the student's vein because it's large, straight, and easy to cannulate. In theory.

"Keith," Lance let him know what he was doing. "I'm starting an IV in your wrist; it may hurt a little, but not for long. We're only doing it once." The amount of pain Keith was already in, Lance wondered if the prick of the needle would even be noticed, but he also knew that he wouldn't be as graceful as he had been in the quiet of his apartment. Lance held his breath, didn't blink, tightened all his muscles to brace what they were doing, somehow hold it apart from any movement the ambulance might unexpectedly make at a crucial moment. Steady hand. Sure stick. Keith flinched slightly as Lance eased the needle in, but kept still enough, everything still enough, that the placement was a success. Lance taped it securely in place, knowing that the needle would be Keith's best friend for at least the next few hours and possibly the next few days.

Grayson looked stunned when Lance finished and looked up at him, stunned and impressed. He reached over to take Keith's hand, checking Lance's work and at the same time injecting a solution into it. Bretylium. Finally.

"Almost there, Keith," Lance reassured him, taking his hand back from Grayson and placing it carefully across his torso. "We've just given you some medicine that will slow your heart down. It'll start working soon." Lance leaned over him as he spoke, and Keith opened his eyes to look at him. To stare at him. Keith had his mouth open inside the oxygen mask, breathing so hard, trying so hard to get enough. His eyes were so full of fear and pain that it made Lance hurt too. Made him feel guilty. It shouldn't have come to this; Lance should never have allowed Keith to decline to this point.

And they were at the worst part now. The part where there was nothing left for Lance to do except wait. It would take several more minutes, maybe as many as twenty, for the medication to fully enter Keith's bloodstream and do what it was supposed to. Twenty grueling minutes for Keith to continue struggling for air, for his heart to throb and jerk and race. And Lance could do nothing for him anymore.

"Stay with me, Keith," Lance pleaded, wishing his voice sounded better, less afraid. He didn't want Keith to hear it. Fear was such a contagious thing. "Stay awake."

**Author's Note: So much going on . . . . hang in there, boys. And you too – hang in there. We have a long way to go. I mean – Shiro and Lance have to chat, and I'm not sure how much trouble Lance is in now. Lying to policemen, doing things outside of his scope of practice. Even good intentions have consequences. Alas. I'll try to keep the chapters coming in a speedy manner. If you are anxious to know about something, want to chat, want some reassurance. Whatever – let me know. I love hearing from you.**


	11. Scope of Practice

**Author's Note: Oh my dears – this chapter. So much research involved – more than a dash of theoretical science. I know it's shorter than you've been getting used to, but I hope it's full of wonderful for you anyway. If any of you reading this ARE familiar with the Josephson junction and the Kuramoto model for synchronization of biological oscillators, please feel free to tell me how wrong I have it. I'd like to get a better grasp on those ideas. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, that's good. Lance will explain it as best he can seeing as Pidge is at home and unavailable at the moment. I hope you enjoy.******

**Chapter Eleven: Scope of Practice**

Once an ambulance arrives at the emergency room, there is a transfer. Not just of the patient. Everything switches. The paramedics let down the stretcher, wheel it inside, and shift the patient to a waiting bed and team. Paperwork is torn from a clipboard and tucked into a folder. Information goes back and forth between the ambulance staff and the ER staff.

Lance had always remained on the ambulance side of an emergency room. Bring the patient in, pull the paperwork, return the blood pressure cuff to its waiting hook, answer questions and stay out of the way. Once the ER people had everything they needed, he'd go back to the ambulance to wait for the next call. Staying here afterward was new, unusual, and to be honest, demoralizing.

Keith's condition required a team on high alert, and Stefany had done a good job on the radio before they'd arrived assembling the proper people. There was someone from cardiology, from phlebotomy, two techs, and a nurse – all people that Lance did not know who crowded him and Shiro away from Keith almost as if they weren't there at all. Lance wanted to fight them, cling to Keith's hand and refuse to move, but Shiro pulled him back like an irresistible force of nature, physically restraining him and tugging him into a corner. A powerless place, watching the lab-coat-covered backs, hearing from a distance a few vague words here and there.

"Let them do their job," Shiro told him, and while he hated it, Lance had to admit that he would be out of his league among them. He submitted and stood quietly anxious at Shiro's side, arms folded tightly across his ribs, his backpack on the floor leaning against his leg, watching with grudging admiration how the ER team worked together.

The nurse was amazing, stepping in immediately with the techs on her sides. Between the three of them, they moved Lance's quilt to the only chair in the room and had Keith stripped of his clothes and into a gown in seconds. Then they began efficiently hooking him up to everything they had - another blood pressure cuff, a pulse oximeter, the portable D-size oxygen tank from the ambulance was replaced with the permanent flow attached to the wall. And Lance blinked in amazement as the nurse secured in place all twelve electrodes for an EKG machine with a kind of skill that he could only compare to the embellished and non-realistic precision of old martial arts movies. Stats appeared on the black and green screen to Keith's side, a continuous line of data showcasing Keith's rapid heartbeat, a frightened spike popping up hard every time someone unfamiliar touched him. His oxygen level had increased to ninety-two, but that was the only improvement Lance could see.

The only snag in the entire admissions procedure came when the phlebotomist was temporarily tripped up to discover that Keith already had an IV site. Lance watched him check it, turning Keith's hand this way and that, examining it from several angles. He said something to one of the techs, shrugged with only one shoulder, and began to hook his own apparatus into Lance's cannula to start putting fluids back into Keith's system.

After a few minutes, the energy in the room died down slightly, the phlebotomist leaving altogether, taking one of the techs with him. The cardiologist left shortly after with the remaining tech, and Lance watched the nurse sort of bow out of the room as the ER doctor on call came in. The whole thing seemed a sort of choreographed performance – the team acting as the cast to set the stage for the main actress. Lance felt his muscles constrict, unconsciously standing straighter as he recognized the doctor coming purposefully to Keith's side, a woman who moved like a warrior of the Amazon, like some sort of African priestess. Dr. Angelique Delacroix.

She was covered in royal purple scrubs, gloves, and mask, with almost none of her dark skin visible, but he knew it was her. Knew from the deep brown hair, steaked with gold, that had been plaited in hundreds of tiny braids that normally fell to her waist, but were now pulled into a large knot at the base of her neck. He knew from the confidence in her stride, and the sharpness of her eyes, also dark and streaked with gold, as she took in everything around her in an instant. Lance had only seen her twice before, but he knew her well.

She'd turned up unexpectedly during one of Lance's EMT classes, asking permission to sit in and listen for a while. No one knew why she was there or why she had taken a sudden interest in this particular instructor or lesson. Lance didn't even know who she was then, though she'd been introduced before she'd taken a random seat. She sat there, silently, until Lance answered a question that seemed to surprise her and suddenly Lance found himself the object of her tiger-eyed stare as she continued to drill him about who he was, where he came from, and how he would handle case after case until she'd completely exhausted his soul and his knowledge, turning him into a stammering, uncertain mess in a matter of minutes to the tune of the other students nervously giggling all around him – all of them secretly relieved that they weren't in his shoes. When class dismissed and she left the room, Lance stayed in his seat for a long time feeling slightly violated.

He'd almost refused to go when he received an email from her the following morning asking him to come have coffee with her in her office at the hospital, but in the end, he'd been too intrigued not to accept. He even bought and brought the damn coffee – though he hadn't been able to drink it during what seemed like an impromptu hiring interview with dashes of autobiography and a quasi-history lesson thrown in at seemingly random intervals that kept Lance perpetually knocked off balance. He sat there, stunned by her voice, which was deep, intense, and full, rooted into the very core of the earth. She asked him about sucking chest wounds and then turned around and asked what he knew about voodoo. He'd done his best to keep up, but in the end, he accidentally spilled coffee all over himself, his hands shaking incredibly hard at the twists and turns and just the strange _intensity_ of the conversation that he just lost his grip on the cup completely, staining his clothes and damaging some of her notes.

That had caused her to sigh and pull back, slowing down, thanking him for coming and suddenly he was out in the hallway with several napkins, the bitter coffee, and a sense that he had just failed an exam, that he'd missed his chance to do something incredibly special. It felt like being passed over by an undercover deity. Unworthy. In revenge, he'd asked Pidge to pull up everything she could find on Dr. Delacroix.

"I'm surprised she didn't eat you," Pidge told him as they sifted through the information. Angelique was forty-five, had spent her childhood in the French Quarter of New Orleans before attending college at Harvard and later made Chicago her permanent home after her residency there. She had never married and had a reputation for bringing most of her students to tears on the rare occasion she taught a class. "Did you notice if she stole any of your hair?" And Lance had shoved Pidge's shoulder, rolling his eyes, but then that night he sat up in bed worried about that very thing. That had been four months ago, and since he didn't appear to be cursed by anything other than being a sort of awkward nineteen-year-old boy, he'd forgotten all about her until now.

As Dr. Delacroix approached Keith's bedside, Lance couldn't take it anymore. He broke away from Shiro's hand on his shoulder, meeting her on Keith's other side as if he'd protect him from her somehow, though he couldn't bring himself to look her in the eye and Keith actually needed her quite badly at the moment. Angelique didn't acknowledge him; she was devoting her full attention to Keith, slipping one hand into his and placing the other gently on his forehead.

"Hello, baby," she crooned at Keith with so much actual affection in her voice that Lance was startled. He'd never heard her talk like that; she certainly had never spoken to him that way. "My name is Dr. Delacroix, and I'm going to be looking after you while you're here in the ER. Looks like you've got quite a lot going on, huh?" Keith lay on the bed, breathing like fish do when they're out of the water, out of his element, staring at this tiger woman standing at his side. "We're giving you fluids and some pain medication in your IV there, and it seems you've already received a good dose of heart medication in the ambulance. We'll give you a little more time to see how it's working for you before we try anything else. So far, everything seems to be holding steady, so I hope to have you feeling more comfortable very soon. I know you're hurting right now; please stay patient." She paused, conspicuously turning her gaze to Lance, who had to remind himself a little too late to close his stupid mouth. He couldn't tell if she recognized him or not, and he wasn't sure if he'd be insulted or relieved if she had forgotten him completely.

"Is this your friend, darling?" She continued to talk to Keith. Instead of answering, Keith did his normal trick of reaching over to Lance, intending to attach himself to his clothes, but Lance cut him off before he could, gently encasing Keith's hand with both of his, careful of the IV. "I see." She moved her exquisite head over to where Shiro still stood in the corner. "And you?" She asked.

"Takashi," Shiro said, and Lance admired how strong he kept his voice. "I'm . . . was . . . Keith's social worker."

"Ah," Angelique breathed in response, seeming a little disappointed with the selection of outcasts who had followed Keith into her triage room. "Could you tell me who has legal custody of Keith currently? Does he have a living will or advance directive?"

"No, nothing like that," Shiro responded, and Lance could tell he was ashamed of himself for some reason. "And he's eighteen. He has legal custody of himself – no known relatives." Lance knew why she was asking these questions. If Keith blacked out, if he flatlined, if something bad happened here, Dr. Delacroix wanted to know who was allowed to speak for him, to make medical decisions on his behalf. Since neither Lance nor Shiro could legally do so, she would assume that right if the situation came to it. Lance didn't know if he liked that, but it was out of his hands now. This wasn't like the ambulance; he wouldn't be able to get away with anything. He had no authority in this room at all.

Angelique nodded, accepting the answers and assimilating them into her master plan. She moved the hand on Keith's forehead to his chest, as if holding his heart.

"All right, love," she spoke again to Keith. "I'm going to give you five minutes for the medicine to bring your heartrate down before we try something else. You just lie here quiet, just like this. Don't be scared. Your friends are here with you to help you relax, but I am going to borrow Lance for a few moments to ask him some questions. We'll be right outside the door." So she did remember him after all.

Her eyes were on fire when Lance finally met her gaze, and he wondered how she could keep her expression so fierce like that when her voice was so soft. He looked away as quickly as possible, turning behind him to gesture for Shiro to come take his place at Keith's side. Shiro seemed more than happy to do that, stepping up immediately and leaning with concern over Keith.

"I'll be right back," Lance promised, though he absolutely did not want to follow Dr. Delacroix out into the hall. But it was like he was already gone, no one acknowledged his departing comment. Angelique held the door open for him to go out first, and he walked past her as if to an execution.

It turned out not to be that bad, but it was close.

"Well, Lance," Angelique began, tucking Keith's chart into the slot by the door. "McClain, wasn't it? Still in the med program then?" The way she said it made Lance wonder if she thought he would have been kicked out by now. Though, he supposed he hadn't made that great of an impression on her the last time they'd been together. He hoped she hadn't brought him out here just to ridicule him about that.

"That's right," Lance responded, though he felt that she hadn't expected an answer. "Nice to see you again, Dr. Delacroix."

"Hmmm," she replied, ambiguously, no trace of the gentleness he'd just seen in her remaining outside of Keith's room. "Do you want to explain yourself?"

Now he was confused and not sure where to start. Did she mean the stuff he'd pulled on the ambulance? Letting Shiro carry Keith? He stood there deliberating, leaning a little against the wall, listening to the bustle going on all around them. Carts being pushed, typing, footsteps, monitors going off, murmurings of conversations happening outside of triage rooms just like the one he was having right now, all private discourses though they were right in the open. And out of the corner of his eye, Lance saw Officer Guist just arriving through the main entrance. Great.

"Maybe you tell me what I did and then I can explain why I did it," he suggested, not wanting to give her more than she had on him already. Mostly he wanted to get the lecture finished so he could go back inside with Keith.

"I heard from the ambulance team that you placed that IV on the drive over here," she said, her tone so dangerously neutral that Lance wanted to sit down on the floor. "Is that true?"

"Yes, Ma'am," he confessed, not seeing any point in denying it, wondering how much more the ambulance team had told her. "I thought it would save time."

"You know that's out of your scope of practice, don't you? I could have your status revoked?"

"I . . do know that, yes." Lance could practically feel the discomfort of the coffee spilling on his lap; he was right back in her office again, stuttering under her scrutiny. Geeze, this woman.

"And you did it anyway. Why?" Ah, what the hell? He was already in trouble.

"Because I'm better at IVs than Grayson," he said, very simply, no trace of arrogance involved. "The cephalic vein was the best location, and I wanted to get the medication into his system via IV as soon as possible because an injection would take two hours to work and an IV would take twenty minutes. And I didn't want to wait until we got here because even the two minutes we were away from the hospital was almost three hundred and fifty beats of Keith's heart and thirty liters of oxygen and I just . . .that just seemed like too long when it didn't have to be." He hung his head, wanting to disappear.

"Well, forgive me, but I'm surprised," Angelique finally said, truly sounding that way. Lance risked looking up at her, seeing her standing with her hands on her hips, head tilted to one side, looking at him as if he had suddenly pulled a face mask off of himself, revealing a secret identity that she'd never known about. "I didn't think you had it in you."

That sort of stung, but Lance wasn't in a position to protest.

"And in a moving vehicle on icy roads, no less," she finished, very quietly.

Lance wasn't sure where to go with that. Did she sound . . . impressed? At least she didn't sound mad. He thought it might be safe to change the subject.

"What's going to happen to Keith?" Lance asked, not really caring about anything else. He knew he'd done the right thing, maybe not the legal thing, but the right thing, and if the absolute worst happened and he ended up right back in Cuba in his mango orchards because of it, he thought he could live with that.

"If he's lucky, his heart will start slowing to a normal pace in the next few minutes. If it doesn't, we'll have to use the manual defibrillator." Angelique answered his question as though speaking to a comrade, to an equal. Lance didn't know how, but it seemed she'd gained a new respect for him during their conversation. That didn't mean he liked her answer, though. The defibrillator was a last resort, the ultimate in turning it off and turning it back on again for human hearts. If Keith's heart couldn't return to a normal rhythm on its own, Angelique was planning on using an electric shock to stop it in its tracks with the idea that it would then correct. Or just stay stopped.

"But he's awake," Lance whispered, almost to himself. He's conscious. He'll feel all of that. It'll hurt. It'll hurt so much. Officer Guist had made his way over to them, standing a respectful, but expectant distance away, as if waiting in line for his turn.

"He's awake right now, but if we let him keep going like this for much longer, his heart is going to fail. You know that," Angelique went on. "I don't want to do it either, but if I have to choose, that's what we're going to do. So I suggest you get back in there and calm him down as much as you can."

Lance nodded, feeling the weight of responsibility for Keith being returned to him, wondering if that would have been the case if he'd somehow displeased Angelique with his explanation of the IV. He gripped the handle of the triage room door, intending on going on, but Officer Guist spoke up behind him.

"Actually, I'd like a word with you first," he said, breaking into the conversation now that it was practically finished. Angelique lowered her mask specifically to scowl at him.

"Oh no," she snipped at Guist. "You're going to have to wait, Officer. I just gave this boy a job to do and someone's life is at stake waiting for him to do it. You can have your say when his patient is out of danger and resting."

Guist didn't look very happy about that, but there wasn't a whole lot he could do. He didn't have a warrant for the triage room. "Can I ask you some questions, then?" He compromised.

"That's fine," Angelique agreed. "You go on now, Lance. Go talk him down. I'll be there in a few minutes to check on your progress."

Never in his life did Lance believe that he would be pulled out of a room for violating medical rules only to be later defended from an officer of the law and sent back into the room to continue. He would have never thought that Angelique Delacroix would turn over a patient in her emergency room into his care. But he certainly wasn't going to question anything Dr. Delacroix said to him. And if she thought, even just a little, that he might have a chance to help Keith not need electric defibrillation, then he was all for it. But what the hell was he supposed to do?

Shiro looked serious when Lance returned to them. Both he and Keith had their eyes closed, and Shiro held onto Keith's hand, bowing over him a little in defeated pain, self-admonishment almost radiating from him. Lance checked the screen with Keith's numbers displayed on it. Oxygen up to ninety-four, which was considered just shy of normal. Heart rate .. . . still fluctuating between 160 and 170. Lance had no idea what he was going to do to help that, but he'd be damned if he disappointed Angelique again, damned if he allowed Keith to be put through any more trauma without thinking of something.

"Hey there, guys," he greeted softly as he joined them at the bedside. Keith opened his eyes at the sound of Lance's voice, and Lance put a hand on his head. "Miss me?"

"Wh. . Where did you go?" Keith wheezed, just that tiny sentence dropping his oxygen level to ninety-two again.

"Shh, Lobito," Lance shook his head at him. "I was just outside with the doctor. You're in luck, Keith, she is _legendary_."

"She is?" Shiro asked, as if he'd nominated himself to speak for Keith.

"Oh yeah," Lance assured, hoping to ease Keith's fear about being here, hoping to make it clear that he was in good hands now, trying to lighten the weight that was on Keith's heart. "Highest survival rate of any doctor on the floor, and I heard a rumor that she took out her own appendix. Don't know if that's true, though."

"You. . . you're my doctor," Keith protested, resistant, not wanting to be here and hating that there had been nothing he could do about it. Lance smiled, a little bitterly.

"No, I'm not," he admitted, ashamed. "If I hadn't been pretending to be, you wouldn't be here right now, Keith. It wouldn't have come to this." Keith's heart performed a frightening little shudder, the read out on the screen looking like a dog shaking itself dry. It made Keith whimper, eyes closing again. Lance needed to try a little harder. Five minutes was not a long time, and Keith was still terrified, which was impeding the medication's effectiveness. Lance put a hand on Keith's chest, as Dr. Delacroix had done, not feeling it. The pulse was rapid, but not strong, unperceivable under his palm.

"What did she say?" Shiro asked, gaze heavy on Lance. "The doctor. What's the plan?" Oh no, don't ask me that, Lance inwardly groaned. I don't want to tell you; it won't help. There is no way to ease that news and no way to prepare for it if you know in advance. He pressed harder on Keith, pushing down, searching for the feel of the heart under his hand. If only he could calm it, physically hold it still. If only he could match it to . . . wait a second.

"Synchronization," he heard himself say, remembering walking through his door, late, to find Pidge there with Hunk and about five metronomes, all pulsing out of rhythm with each other, different start points, different speeds. Hunk was so close Lance wondered how he wasn't getting knocked in the face by one of the pendulums, a stopwatch in his hand. "We're going to try synchronization." You're going to what, Lance? You're saying this out loud, you idiot.

"What's that?" Shiro sounded unsure, and Lance didn't blame him. He was certainly winging it with this, but mostly he needed to give Keith something to do, something more physical and focused than lying there struggling to breathe, waiting on the invisible assistance of the drugs. Something to calm him down like Dr. Delacroix had told him to do. "A procedure?"

"No, physics," Lance answered, looking only at Keith, noting that the glimmer of almost trust that had been in his eyes when he'd taken him from his apartment had turned into something that resembled blind faith. Though Lance wasn't sure how that could have happened when he'd done nothing to improve Keith's condition since the beginning. This would be his absolute last chance. He did not want to watch him be shocked. That couldn't happen.

"Keith, we're going to make a closed circuit – your heart and mine. Where's your hand?" He took Keith's right, the one he'd put the IV in, and guided it upwards, towards his chest, then rethought it at the last second and, extremely careful of the IV site, helped Keith reach under his shirt for skin to skin contact. If there was even the slightest chance that this would work, it would be better with as few barriers as possible. There was a tiny shriek from the monitor as Keith's heart spiked up with the movement.

"Lance?" Keith asked as Lance pressed Keith's hand against his own heartbeat. Shiro looked extremely skeptical but kept quiet.

"It's like a calibration," Lance tried to explain, holding Keith's wrist to help keep his hand fixed in place, knowing he wouldn't have enough strength to hold it up there for long, easing himself delicately on the bed close to Keith, hip-to-hip. "Though I've never done it this way before." Lance slipped his right hand through Keith's hospital gown sleeve, reaching through to where his heart would be. This was so out there; he couldn't believe he was even going to try this.

"What are you trying to do?" Shiro encouraged more explanation. Lance tried to think of how best to explain it and have anyone take him seriously. First he wondered what Pidge would say, then dismissed that quickly as he realized he'd never get anyone to understand anything that way. He decided to be as forthright as possible. It wasn't like he had a lot to lose.

"Did you know that if you set five metronomes next to each other on a table and set them off one after the other, all different speeds, that they will continue to keep pace, just as you set them, without ever changing? Shh, Keith, you just breathe now; trust me." Keith's fingers were curling against Lance's skin, as if he were trying to pull away, like he wasn't sure. Lance held him securely.

"Ok," Shiro accepted, sounding confused, but that's because Lance had only given him half the information.

"But if you take those same five metronomes, all different start times and paces, and instead of setting them on a fixed table, you put them on, say, a skateboard, or something that will allow them to oscillate, to rock, even a little, within seconds every single one of those metronomes will be ticking identically."

"And that applies to this situation how? I'm not following," Shiro asked, not condescendingly. His voice had hope in it, as though he couldn't understand what Lance was getting at, but he really wanted it to work. Lance was also hoping. It was such a long shot. Mostly he wanted to provide Keith with a distraction that sounded completely plausible. This could all be an elaborate mind game that worked a treat or it could be a waste of time that broke all of Lance's credibility. Hard to tell at this point, but Lance just didn't have anything else.

"Let's say Keith's heart is one metronome, ticking fast, not keeping time the way it should," Lance laid his experiment out, hoping that it made even a little sense, grateful that Pidge wasn't here to tell him in excruciating detail how many ways he was messing this up. "And now I've put my steady, slower metronome heartbeat next to his. And the position I've just set is what's known as a Josephson junction, which is two superconductors, our hearts, being joined by a weak coupling system, which would be the connection of our hands here, but will result in a joint supercurrent at the same pace due to the Kuramoto model of synchronization." Lance paused in his wild and possibly inaccurate description to glance at Keith's monitor. No change. And the only thing he could feel under his hand was Keith's labored breathing and fever heat. But they weren't moving yet. There needed to be some small movement, oscillation or . . . a rocking of some sort.

"Keith, if you have any energy left at all, try to move with me, ok?" Lance invited as Shiro stood to the side, utterly transfixed. Lance began an awkward shifting, just barely, keeping Keith's hand in place, lowering his head to his chest to concentrate. "Pay attention to everything slowing down. It'll only work if we can move a bit together."

But Keith absolutely could not move. Even with Lance's help, his hand was trembling against Lance's chest with the effort of partially holding his arm up. He'd started blinking fast again, his body worn out and on the verge of giving up. Lance felt defeated, sad, and completely out of ideas. What was he even doing? This was all so stupid. He wasn't even remotely sure he'd gotten the science right. Just because he'd seen it done in metronomes didn't mean anything in this situation. He shook his head, hoping that the five minutes would be over soon, hoping that whatever pain medication was in Keith's IV would be enough to at least block some of what was going to happen to him. Lance slumped a bit over Keith, feeling ridiculous for even suggesting this.

He was about to remove his hands and sit up, tell them to never mind, he had no idea what he was even talking about, when Shiro scooted in close on Keith's other side, slipping his real arm around Keith's shoulders. He moved behind Keith, propping him up and letting him rest against his chest while he wrapped both arms around him, reaching forward in order to hold to their arms on either side. His robotic arm gripped to Keith just above his elbow while Lance felt his organic hand close on his forearm above his wrist. Lance looked up at him, meeting his eyes. He still looked doubtful, but determined too.

"Thanks," Lance told him, several layers of gratitude in one word. "Let's try rocking a little, just back and forth for a bit and see what happens. Keith – you just relax and breathe, ok? We've got you."

Lance had never felt so much like a quack in all his life. This was not medicine; this was supernatural nonsense. No, he tried to correct himself. It was science; he had seen this work himself. Just not with hearts. Still, there were worse things he could be doing with his five minutes here with Keith, with what could be his last five minutes. He was supported here in the hospital, with Lance in front of him, whispering assurances, and Shiro behind him, holding him securely, all of them comfortably rocking together in a slow and steady rhythm, quiet, soft. If everything went horribly wrong, if the medicine failed and the defibrillator didn't work, at least in these few minutes, Keith would know that Shiro was here, holding him. That he'd come looking for him.

Lance felt his own chest tighten up as he thought about that, feeling the coming helpless shaking that always happened to him after handling intense situations as he'd just done with Keith. If he wanted to keep it at bay, he'd have to keep moving. If he were to hold still, if things got too quiet while they waited, he was going to break down. And there was nowhere to hide right now if he did. He took another breath, trying to just focus on what he was doing, stay here in this moment with Keith and Shiro. He needed to be Incident Commander in Charge for just a while longer.

"It's working," Shiro whispered, and once he said it out loud, Lance could feel it. Keith's breaths had deepened, getting slower and more effective. His heart also slowing and strengthening, to the point that Lance could feel it throbbing under his palm. Inwardly, Lance was shaking his head. No way. There was no way this was working, but he knew better than to say anything dumb like that. It had been his idea; so he certainly wasn't going to admit that he hadn't had any real faith in it. It's not working, Shiro, he thought. The medicine is working. This was all a smoke and mirrors trick.

But there were lecturers who were keen on the placebo effect, on how powerful a tool the mind could be in things like this. Shifting Keith from a place of unfamiliar terror to being rocked in Shiro's arms might have had something to do with the dropping heartrate, though Lance wouldn't be publishing a paper on the radical effects of the Josephson junction when used to synchronize heartbeats in separate bodies anytime soon. He didn't even think he'd tell Pidge about it later for fear that she would laugh herself breathless and then give him hell about it for months.

"There you go," Lance congratulated softly, as if he'd planned the whole thing, as if he'd been certain of its success. Keith's face had smoothed into quiet exhaustion, into relief. He leaned against Shiro in perfect trust, as calm as Lance had ever seen him. It stirred up a warning flicker of something uncomfortable in Lance, so he turned his face away from them to look at Keith's numbers. So much better than when he'd come in. Keith's heart rate had slowed to a respectable 90 beats a minute, and his oxygen had come up to 98 percent. Blood pressure an almost textbook 105 / 70.

"Oh, that's better. Much better," Lance heard Angelique behind him as she entered the room to check on them. He heard the relief in her cheery tone and realized how much she'd wanted the medication to work too. "Well done, everyone. I see you're all very cozy here, but can I get you two to back up so I can check on our boy here?" Lance extracted his hand from Keith's sleeve and then helped him detach out from under his shirt. Likewise, Shiro eased Keith onto the pillows, reluctantly standing up.

"Sorry, I won't be long," she apologized, setting her stethoscope into her ears. "Just need to listen to your heart a moment, darling." Lance tried to stand up and let her get close, but Keith had a tight grip on his sleeve. He had to use his other hand to gently pull him off so he could get out of Dr. Delacroix's way.

"I'm getting your blanket," he offered, relinquishing his place to Angelique. "I'm not going anywhere." Believe me, I know how hard it is to be alone with this woman. Meanwhile, Shiro had seen Officer Guist still standing in the hallway.

"Looks like I need to, though. Keith, I'll be right back," Shiro promised, disappearing out the door to see what Guist was still doing here. Lance hoped he'd tell the officer to get lost; there was no reason for him to still be hanging around. It should be pretty obvious at this point that Keith couldn't keep a court date in this condition. Lance picked up his quilt, the scent of the apartment rushing up to him as he moved it, a little piece of softness in this very not soft space, and he draped it over Keith, pulling it up to his waist protectively and waiting for Dr. Delacroix.

"Has anything like this ever happened to you before, sweetheart? Any other heart troubles?" Angelique was asking Keith as Lance finished fussing with the blanket. Keith shook his head, unable to look at her despite how gentle she was being with him. Lance would have to tell him later how special it was that she was speaking to him so warmly. Maybe he'd even tell him about the coffee episode. He might think it was funny.

"Well, now that we've gotten things under control, we can start figuring out what happened and why so it doesn't happen again. How's that sound?" Angelique went on, her voice coaxing and careful. "I'd like to do a couple tests while you're resting with us here. I'm going to have someone come down with an EKG machine in a few minutes to measure your blood flow and heart patterns, and I'd like to leave you hooked up to it for a few hours just to monitor how things are going. I'm going to take a blood sample from you, and we're going to keep administering fluids; you definitely need them."

"Dr. Delacroix?" Lance spoke up before he had thought much about whether he should. "I . . . already took a blood sample this morning. We, um, we were thinking Keith's arrhythmia could be caused by anemia. It's already in the lab." Angelique looked at him over her shoulder, face mask covering her mouth, but her eyes were hard.

"Oh?" Was the only thing she said, all the honey gone from her tone. Yeah, Lance might not have wanted to volunteer that information. But he didn't want Keith to have to do things twice either. The test results could already be available, which meant he could start getting an iron supplement sooner. "You're taking it upon yourself to do blood samples now, are you? But how did you . . . no, wait, it was Dr. Coran, wasn't it?"

Lance hesitated. It was one thing to confess his own sins. He didn't want Coran to get into trouble for helping him smuggle anonymous BSL II samples through diagnostics. His hesitancy quickly turned to confusion. How did she know it was Dr. Coran?

"Oh, never mind," Angelique said, turning away from him. Lance wondered if she were only giving him three words now because she was saving them all for the disciplinary write-up she was going to type up later. It wasn't necessarily illegal – what he and Coran had done this morning. But Keith hadn't signed permission for anything, and he technically was no one's patient, so if something had happened and he'd wanted to, he could sue them for malpractice. "I guess I'll see what I can find out from the lab then."

She stood up, pocketing her stethoscope. "I'll be back with the EKG machine." Then she looked at Lance again, and he couldn't read her expression. Exasperation? Amusement? "You and I need to have a talk later," she said, rather threateningly. He nodded, submissive. "Stay with him until I get back, but for God's sake, don't touch anything. You understand me?"

Oh, yes, Lance understood. It wasn't for God's sake, it was for Lance's. He was on incredibly thin ice, and the only reason he was even allowed to stay in this room was because Keith's numbers were improving.

"Yes, Ma'am," Lance acknowledged, frustrated, depleted and slightly disoriented. Angelique sighed, as if she weren't sure she could leave him alone with Keith, but she was a busy woman, and now that Keith was out of immediate danger, she did have other things she needed to do. She shook her head, waving a hand at him dismissively, and went off to take care of other patients. Lance unconsciously slumped as she left, resting both hands on Keith's bed.

"Did . . . did I get you in trouble?" Keith asked hesitantly, and Lance could feel his gaze on him. He lifted his head to comfort him, seeing the worry in his eyes, emphasized by exhaustion.

"I got myself in trouble," Lance replied, smiling. "It's nothing you have to worry about."

"But . . why? What did you do wrong?" Keith wondered out loud, his voice so endearing to Lance that he paused before answering in order to pull the blanket higher, over Keith's chest. It was so good that he had enough breath again to talk, even if this was what he wanted to talk about.

"I didn't do anything wrong," Lance said, and he heard Hunk snort in his memory because of the slipperiness of his answer. "Everything I've done was technically the correct thing to do; I'm just the wrong person to do it."

"But if you did the right thing . . .?" Keith sounded confused, and as though he were getting upset. There was a catch to his voice that Lance didn't like. "Why is it like that?"

"Hey, Lobito, calm down," Lance eased him, putting a hand on his arm, needing him to stay quiet and restful. Keith reacted by curling towards him and clinging again to his sleeve. "No reason to get all worked up. It's because I'm an EMT. Just an EMT - I should say. And when this all started, I wasn't even on call. Technically, Dr. Coran and I should have had you sign some paperwork before we took a blood sample, and Coran should have taken it, not me. And I wasn't supposed to let Shiro carry you, and I really wasn't supposed to start your IV, and especially not in your hand. I don't really have any authority to do any of that stuff. I did it because I have the training and the practice, but most EMTs don't, so it makes sense that they aren't allowed to."

"But . . Shiro cleared you. He said it was ok," Keith protested.

"That worked for Grayson," Lance explained. "But Shiro isn't your legal guardian or medical power of attorney. He doesn't really have any power to speak for you. Him saying it was ok didn't mean a thing."

"So what's going to happen?" Keith sounded anxious. Lance shifted so he could put one hand on his chest.

"I'm not sure," he answered honestly, keeping his tone light despite the severity of the words he was using. "Maybe nothing? I think the worst that could happen is I get sued for malpractice, stripped of my EMT credentials, kicked out of the med program, and sent back home." Keith clung to him tighter, alarmed.

"Sued? They can sue you?" He asked.

"No," Lance smiled again, leaning closer. "But you can. If that's something you wanted to do?"

"God, no."

"Looks like I'm safe then," Lance responded, though he didn't feel it. Dr. Delacroix could still do plenty to hurt his career. He very well could leave this hospital without his volunteer EMT card if she wanted that to happen. He wasn't sure she did though. Since it looked like Keith was going to be ok, the disciplinary measures taken against Lance were hopefully going to be mild. It would have been a completely different story if something had happened.

"How about you, Lobito?" Lance changed the subject, smoothing invisible wrinkles in the quilt to soothe the tremor that he felt starting in his hands when he allowed himself to think what might have happened to Keith. Not yet. Dr. Delacroix would be back soon; Shiro and Officer Guist were still talking out in the hall. Keith was awake and needed him. He couldn't fall to pieces yet. "How are you doing? Is it easier to breathe?"

"Yeah." In fact, if Dr. Delacroix hadn't specifically told him not to touch anything, Lance likely would have fiddled with the oxygen flow. Keith probably didn't need it up so high anymore. However, things being what they were – he thought he'd best leave it alone. Instead, he shifted the blanket a little more, tucking it tighter around Keith, his fingers lingering over some of the fabric patches. His mother had made it using scraps of clothes, old favorites from Lance's childhood. There was a piece of soft cotton from a pair of pajamas he'd loved, the last remaining corner of his baby blanket, the logo of a Tshirt, several sections from his father's old work shirts. A piece of faded flowery print that had been his mother's best Sunday dress. Each snippet a memory, each stitch a tie to his family. Keep it together.

"Lance?" Keith called him, very softly.

"What is it, Lobito? You all right?"

"I'm so tired." 

"Well, your heart just ran its own private marathon, you know."

"I don't think I can stay awake for much longer." He did sound tired, but comfortable. The pain medication easing him down. Lance put his hand against his face, running his thumb over his eyebrow. "Is it ok if I . ."

"You don't have to stay awake," Lance gave him permission to sleep, knowing that Keith probably would have drifted off a long time ago if it hadn't been for Lance specifically asking him not to in the ambulance. "You can go to sleep, Keith. It's all right."

"If I do . . . will I," he hesitated, and Lance felt his brow crease under his fingers. "Will I wake up again?" No, really? Now Lance put both hands on either side of Keith's face, forcing them not to tremble. He kissed Keith tenderly on the forehead, not able to help himself.

"Oh, Keith, of course," he assured, quickly, shocked and sad that Keith had even worried about that. He wished he could tell him that it hadn't been that bad, but it absolutely had been. "Your numbers are good; you're safe now. Geeze, you poor thing. I'm sorry." Lance knew that Keith had been scared, terrified even, but for some reason he hadn't thought about that. He touched his forehead against Keith's, wanting to be closer but not sure how to manage it.

"Rest, Lobito," he encouraged. "I'll be here."

"Did . . . did Shiro leave?" Keith asked, sleepy.

"No, he's still here. He's just outside talking to someone. I'm sure he'll be back soon." And there is no way I'm letting him go anywhere while you're sleeping, Keith, Lance promised silently.

"Talking to who?" Keith murmured, but Lance didn't want to remind him about the policeman. Didn't know if he'd even seen him there in the apartment – his entire focus had been on Shiro, it was possible that he'd missed him. He didn't want to tell him about Monday, or the court summons, or that the jury had made a decision that would affect the rest of Keith's life. He didn't want to think about that now, and he didn't want Keith to think about it either. Not when they were just barely recovering.

"I can't see from here," Lance half-lied. It was true that he couldn't see Officer Guist from this angle, but he knew he was out there, waiting. Knew he still had to deliver to Keith the summons. Knew that he still wanted to talk to Lance too. Outside this room, the world was still moving. The snow was still falling. The sun going down. "Quiet, now. Rest your heart. It's going to be ok."

Keith's eyes were already closed, his chest rising and falling slower and slower. Lance straightened, watching him sleep, feeling uneasy. His hand shook when he reached out to smooth the hair away from Keith's face, something else that was coming for him whether he wanted it to or not.

"It's going to be ok," he repeated, to himself as the shivery feeling traveled up his arms and into his chest, all the panic from the afternoon that had gathered quietly in the back of his mind, waiting almost politely for him to finish his duties as an efficient responder, catching up to him now in the stillness, when the emergency was over. Lance grabbed on to the blanket with both hands, feeling lightheaded all of a sudden, too warm. Damn it. His knees were shaking now along with his hands and shoulders, so he went ahead and knelt on the floor, his fists above him, clinging to the blanket, to his family, to Keith. "It's ok," he told himself, firmly. There's no need for this now. Everything's fine. Keith's sleeping peacefully. A tear dripped unexpected and fast from his eye, and a matching sob caught in his throat. He let go with one hand so he could cover his mouth. He didn't want to make any noise here, but he was quickly losing control over things like that. The sob came out in a weird sort of wheeze, followed immediately by another, desperate little wails of anguish from a tragedy that hadn't even happened. He tried to shake it away, shake his head. This was so stupid. Why did he always do this? He heard himself gasp, choking on his own attempts to be quiet, knowing that he was lying to himself.

Nothing was ok.

**Author's Note: I wish you guys knew how quickly Angelique just walked out of my head. I wasn't planning on her, but now that she's here – damn I love her. And speaking of walking – who is going to walk in on Lance's little breakdown here first? Shiro? Angelique? Guist? I haven't decided – who do you want? My poor Lance, a good deed never goes unpunished, does it? As you and Keith are well aware. **


	12. Aftershock

**Author's Note: Again my apologies for the delay. This chapter was delicate and a struggle. I like where it's going, but it wasn't in the original plan. I like it better than the original plan, however, so we'll move forward. I also took some time to start the audio version of this story. I've recorded through chapter eight so far. I'm not the best at it (I can't do accents), and my cat likes to chime in quite often, but it's So Much Fun. Unfortunately, I only have it accessible on my Google Drive, but let me know if you'd like for me to try and make it available or if you'd like the link.**

**Or maybe I should just shush and let you get to the newest chapter. Yes, good plan. Let's go.**

**Chapter Twelve: Aftershock**

Lance felt tossed and battered, helpless in an emotional hurricane, his only safety the hand he kept gripped tight to the quilt covering Keith. That had been so close. Way too close. Lance knelt on the triage room floor, hand over his mouth, reliving in graphic detail how Keith had collapsed in his apartment and every hideous moment after that. He watched the scenarios play out, over and over, each one different, each a clear traumatizing version of all that could have gone wrong at every critical point. Lance tightened and chastised himself for all the poor decisions he'd made regarding Keith and his treatment, every risk he'd taken, every moment he could have done better. Then he mentally beat himself again for how he'd dealt with the police officer at the door, how he'd handled his conversation with Pidge upon learning about the murder trial, the clumsy phone call with Allura. How basically everything he'd done since he'd slammed his textbook next to Keith's head at the end of class yesterday morning had been a mistake.

And now he couldn't stop shaking in the aftermath, powerless and paralyzed by images of things that hadn't even happened. Oh, but they could have. The difference between the reality and the what if was as thin and fragile as a butterfly wing, the quickness of a single heartbeat, and the realization of that, knowing that it would have been his fault, made Lance tremble through all his limbs, robbed him of the strength or energy to stand up from the floor. He couldn't even lift his head. It went on and on, much longer than before. Lance was usually shaky for a while after certain emergency calls as his body managed the remnants of extra adrenaline, but not like this. Because damn it, Keith. Lance cared about him, despite everything, more than he should, and it was creating additional stress in an already stressful situation. It wasn't just the adrenaline making him shake this time – Lance had been _terrified_. He was still terrified even now. It might be the first time it had struck him so hard that he had literally held someone's life in his hands. And not just anyone's life. Keith's. The boy who through some miracle had started looking to Lance for reassurance, for answers, for help, even though that kept turning out to be a bad decision. Lance didn't hear the door to the triage room open over his own shuddering, horrified breathing.

"Lance? Fritz would like to. . ._what happened_?" Shiro's question startled him, crashed him back into reality, into the present. He cowered, embarrassed and frightened by the alarm in Shiro's tone, but Shiro kept talking, making Lance quickly realize that Shiro was misunderstanding why Lance was on the floor. "What's wrong? Keith!" Shiro's footsteps rushed to the bedside. Lance was too far down to see anything, but he could feel Shiro's shadow covering Keith, guessing from Lance's posture that Keith had relapsed somehow while he'd been out in the hallway talking to Officer Guist, that Lance was kneeling in grief.

Lance did his best to pull himself together. Understanding that his position was giving Shiro the wrong impression about Keith's condition, he forced his trembling body up, hunching over the bed, his head still hanging down to hide the tears on his face. He hadn't meant for anyone to find him on the floor.

"Quiet," Lance cautioned, more clearing his throat than requesting silence. He put his hand on Keith's chest. Shiro's sudden attention and raised tone was causing him to stir in his sleep. "It's all right," Lance assured all of them at once. Then he tried to make eye contact with Shiro, not quite managing it. "He's just sleeping," Lance explained, his tone pitched low, even his words trembling. "He's . . he's going to be fine." He spoke quietly, his voice ruined by crying, eyeing the patch on his quilt made from his mother's dress, knowing he should lift his gaze, knowing he should look at Shiro. Knowing that he was being ridiculous.

"Then what were. . . oh, I see," Shiro stood straight, realization and tender relief in his voice. Lance hunched lower, ashamed. He normally did this in private, hiding until his hands steadied, until he could wash his face and present himself to the world again as though nothing had phased him. He felt weak and exposed standing here with Shiro staring at him. Pathetic. He should have kept control of himself for just a little longer, shouldn't have held still so long that the memories and their fabricated echoes had overtaken him. It shouldn't affect him like this anyway. "I was wondering when it was going to catch up to you."

"What?" Lance asked, hating how his voice sounded like he was ten again, like he had never been capable. Like he had no idea what he was doing.

"You look like you're having a panic attack. Come on, come over here and sit down," Shiro spoke carefully, gently, walking around the bed surprisingly lightly for such a large man, placing a hand on Lance's shoulder to guide him to the chair near the door. His soft touch did not help – it almost buckled Lance's knees again. "It's all right," Shiro assured, but it just made Lance feel worse. They should be focused on Keith right now, not him. There was nothing wrong with _him_; he was just being dramatic and weird. This wasn't panic; it wasn't even close. Wasn't that bad.

"I'm fine," Lance protested, pressing his shaking hands tight under his arms. He clamped his teeth shut before he said anything else. Things like how this happened all the time or how he was so pathetic he shouldn't even try to be a doctor if something like this afternoon was going to bother him so much. How it was going to stop in just a minute. If only Shiro had waited one more minute to come in.

"You're not fine; you're amazing," Shiro said, emphatically. "But trauma needs to be processed at some point. Sit down now. Can I get you some water?"

Lance shook his head as Shiro physically turned him around and pressed him gently into the chair. He didn't want anything except for his body to obey him again. He scrubbed his sleeve across his face in an attempt to wipe it dry, aggravating his bruise, deliberately not looking at Shiro. When _was_ this going to stop?

"Hey, Takashi," Guist's voice from the partially open doorway. Lance didn't look at him either. "Everything all right in here? I thought you were sending Lance out? I need to get going."

"A couple more minutes, Fritz," Shiro answered, standing directly in front of Lance, staring down at him. "He's –"

"No, it's ok," Lance said, jumping up, more than willing to focus on something, literally anything else. "Stay here with Keith. I'll go."

Before anyone could say anything to him, before any soft, kind word came from Shiro, or worse an explanation to Guist about what he thought Lance was experiencing, Lance ripped the door all the way open and slipped past the police officer, forcing him to back up awkwardly fast. Lance kept his arms crossed, hoping to hide the ridiculous shivering if he kept all his muscles clenched tight. Hopefully, this wouldn't take very long. He leaned against the door as he closed it, keeping his eyes very carefully on the tile, noticing how the overhead lights reflected off it, noticing each scuff from shoes and wheels. And he waited for Guist to yell at him. It couldn't be any worse than the stuff he was already telling himself.

"You all right, boy?" Guist asked him, and he nodded in painful exaggeration. Yes, now please just get on with it. Please don't look at me anymore. Guist sighed and Lance watched him shift his weight, staring at his boots.

"How much trouble am I in?" Lance blurted out, not able to wait any longer.

"Trouble?" Guist repeated, a little surprised but Lance didn't know if that was from what he'd said or how he'd said it. "Probably a lot, but nothing on my end."

"Huh?" Lance asked, the second time he'd been confused in less than five minutes. 

"I understand why you did what you did," Guist said, words Lance never thought he'd ever hear from him. "You knew he was sick and wanted to protect him, but it would have been better to just say so when I asked you the first time. I'm not that much of a jerk. I would have listened to what you had to say, and we would have taken care of him."

"I'm sorry," Lance apologized quietly, sheepish. That seemed so obvious to him now. "What's going to happen to him?"

Guist sighed again. "That's up to the jury," he dismissed. "They may have to postpone for a while due to all this, but he will still have to appear in court for the verdict and possible sentencing."

"But –" Lance began, but Officer Guist held out a hand to stop him.

"Listen," Guist quipped. "You're an incredible young man. I've never seen anyone without a badge do what you just did. You're going somewhere. And that's why if you're as smart as I think you are, you'll go home now and let Takashi deal with this. Keith will have to answer for the crimes he's committed. That's nothing you can protect him from, and you'll only hurt yourself if you keep trying. Take my advice and stay away from him. He's trouble."

Lance leaned hard on the door, tired and weak, even his soul felt shaken. Pidge had said basically the same thing, and now he was hearing it again. And the words sounded true if he were looking at the case file. His growing loyalty to Keith made him do things like break medical protocol and lie to police officers. He might have already damaged his future career. But there was what looked right on paper and what _felt_ right inside him. Abandoning Keith now, even leaving him with Shiro, was wrong, and he didn't think he could live with himself if he did that. No matter what it cost him.

He covered his mouth with his hand again, thinking about the consequences waiting for Keith. The hospital stay might delay his sentence, but it wasn't going to go away. Keith had still killed someone, beaten someone to death according to Pidge. Maybe it really would be better to go home. Maybe Lance wasn't thinking about this clearly. Maybe he'd confused his feelings. He couldn't love a murderer; that was just messed up. But how could Keith be a murderer? He just didn't seem . . . but then again, Lance didn't know him, did he? He had no idea what Keith was like when he was well and functioning. He could be every bit as dangerous as Pidge tried to tell him. No, he couldn't . . .. yet, the proof was undeniable. Lance had probably just saved Keith's life only for him to go to prison. For _murder_.

His chest hurt, filling with repressed anguish, and the shaking intensified again. Without meaning to, Lance sank down to the floor, overwhelmed and so tired. Trying not to cry was taking all his energy including the strength to stand up, though it made him feel so pitiful and weak. Why was this taking so much out of him? Just get up, Lance. Go home. Do the smart thing for once.

"Hey," Officer Guist exclaimed, surprised to watch Lance crumple in front of him. "What's the matter with you? It's not the end of the world. Stand up." He crouched in front of Lance, putting a hand on his back, putting pressure on the almost forgotten scrape from the coffee table. Lance cringed away from him, hearing himself make a wounded yelp of pain, wondering if this could possibly get any worse.

"Kid," Guist started, rather impatiently and Lance couldn't blame him, but then something changed in him very suddenly. Lance had his eyes closed but he felt him pause next to him, then felt him stand up. "I'm going to find that doctor," Guist offered, and Lance heard his boots marching away. It took several more seconds for his words to connect into meaning in Lance's head. He was bringing Angelique over here.

That actually would be worse.

Shaky, miserable, and weighted, Lance forced himself upright using the doorknob and the wall. No matter what, he could not let her find him out here in the hall on the floor. His hands were shaking so hard now; he could barely let himself in to Keith's room. Stop, he commanded them. Stop doing that; it's getting weird. But it was like Guist had touched every exposed nerve in his body and now they were all tingling and firing at once. Keith had almost died. Keith had killed someone. Dr. Delacroix was going to be here any second.

"Lance!" Shiro whisper-shouted to him as he staggered through the doorway and dropped onto the chair. He left the door open, letting his face fall into his hands, feeling them tremble all the way through to his elbows and knees. He couldn't look, but he knew Shiro was near him before he touched him or said anything. "Geeze, look at you. It's . . you're getting worse. What happened? Fritz promised he'd go easy on you."

"He . . I'm sorry," Lance managed. "I can't stop."

"Take your time," Shiro invited, but he didn't know that Lance really couldn't do that. He didn't want to. He wanted to stand up, go to Keith, wanted to ask him so many questions. "Is there anything I can do?" Shiro also put a hand on Lance's back, beginning to rub it in comfort. Except it hurt, so again Lance cringed away.

"Please don't," he begged, shuddering. Don't touch me. Don't look at me. I don't want to be here; I don't want to think.

"You and Keith," Shiro muttered, frustrated, but then he too paused. He shifted the hand from Lance's back to his shoulder, taking another step closer to him. What was he doing? Lance felt his shirt lift away from his back, felt it unstick in tiny painful tears from his skin in a couple places as Shiro plucked at it. He twitched in irritation under Shiro's hands. "Oh, that's right," Shiro continued talking to himself. "You crashed into that table, didn't you?" Since he didn't really seem to be talking to him, Lance felt it safe not to try and answer. He wished everyone would just leave him alone, yet his wish remained unfulfilled as more people starting coming in. First Angelique followed by Officer Guist. Perfect.

"Lance, what's going on?" Dr. Delacroix demanded, sounding put out that she'd been pulled away from whatever she'd been doing. Lance wanted to tell her that it wasn't his idea for her to come. That she didn't have to stay on his account. "Oh," he heard her exhale the word, hearing how she stopped short as soon as she saw him. Why did everyone keep saying that? Just go away.

"He hurt himself on a table corner," Shiro offered when Lance couldn't speak. "Looks pretty scraped up, but I'm not sure about the shaking. Panic attack, do you think?"

"No," Angelique said, a sting of disappointment in her tone. "No, that's not what this is." She sounded disgusted, and Lance knew exactly why. He was disgusted with himself too. "Lance, get up. Come with me."

The firm command soothed Lance slightly. At least someone was in control here, someone was solid on what should be done. It didn't have to be him anymore. She also sounded like she knew what was happening to Lance, which meant that she had probably seen it before. She sounded like it could be something that might even have a name, possibly a treatment. She might know how he could make it stop. He obediently got to his feet, ready to follow her without question.

"Where are you taking him?" Shiro asked, sounding unsure as to what his role should be regarding Lance.

"My office," Angelique quipped, her strong fingers circling around Lance's arm to direct him in front of her, stilling Lance's spirit despite her ferocity. "We have a lot to talk about." Oh, they were going to do that right now. Lance had no idea why, but he was secretly relieved. She was taking him to her office where she would sit him down and hopefully rip him to pieces. He knew he deserved it, knew it was coming. Having it over and done with would be such a release. When she started walking, he docilely allowed her to lead him.

"Now wait a minute," Officer Guist blocked the doorway, starting a power struggle. Lance admired his courage, but his bets were on Angelique. "Son, you want me to go with you?" Angelique arched an eyebrow, somehow making such a tiny gesture the elegant equivalent of spitting in his face. Her fingers dug deeper into Lance's arm. Lance didn't dare say a word.

"I don't think a police escort will be necessary, Officer," she told him impatiently.

"I disagree. You've been nothing but vicious to him since he got here," Guist challenged, and Lance suddenly took back most of what he'd thought about him. "If I were in his place, I wouldn't go anywhere with you without an escort and a witness. Why can't you take a look at him right here?"

"Lance, you want all these people staring at you with your shirt off or do you want to come with me?" Angelique smoothly asked, never taking her eyes away from Guist in the most extreme alpha contest Lance had ever seen. Lance didn't really want either option. He didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay near Keith, but she was right about how he also didn't want anyone to look at him anymore. Except that included her.

"You," he almost whispered to the floor, deciding to just get it over with. He couldn't handle the waiting anymore – waiting to see when Keith would recover, what his sentence would be, what Angelique was going to do about Lance acting outside of his scope of practice this afternoon. Might as well cross something off this terrible list since there was no escaping any of it.

"Excuse us," Angelique followed, triumphant, and Guist reluctantly stepped aside to let them pass. Lance lifted his eyes only enough to keep a final image of the room in his mind. Guist and Shiro, both standing near the door, both looking awkward and out of place. Shiro especially looked torn between guarding Keith and Lance, and Lance felt grateful knowing that Shiro had decided, consciously or not, to include Lance as someone who he would be willing to guard. Meanwhile, Officer Guist was glaring at Angelique, his expression shifting subtly between admiration and anger. Lance felt oddly grateful to him too. Their afternoon had certainly deterred remarkably far from their intentions. Lance could commiserate with that one hundred percent.

Lance then looked beyond them, to where Keith slept on, unaware. Lance found that moderately satisfying. If something happened in the next few minutes that shut him outside the hospital, never welcome to return, he thought he could accept that he'd done all he could. Shiro was there now. Keith wouldn't need him anymore. Guist and Pidge had both made compelling points for this to be the time to leave Keith. Lance just . . . The door closed behind them.

Angelique kept her hand on his arm, pushing or pulling him appropriately as she guided him through the emergency room corridors and then onward to her own office. Her fingers lightened in pressure as they went, and by the time they reached her door, she was hardly touching him at all.

"Sit down," she ordered after she'd swiped her key card through the lock, allowing them to enter. "Let me see your hands." She kept an efficient clip in her voice, not exactly sharp, but definitely not tender. Lance was sort of glad about that. If she'd been too nice to him, if she called him any of the pet names she'd used with Keith, he'd probably lose the tenuous control he was currently clinging to. It was easier to just do what she said, not think too hard or too long on any one thing. He sat in the very same place he had when he'd visited her four months ago, holding his trembling hands out for her inspection as he looked around her office. It hadn't changed.

There were several cardboard boxes stacked randomly about the space, haphazardly full of manila files. She had pictures on her desk of her family, her doctorate degree hanging as expected behind her chair. It looked comfortingly like almost every doctor's office Lance had ever been in. Piles of organized random that emphasized clearly that her priority was in her patients and not in her paperwork. He was a little surprised to see the coffee cup he'd brought her still on the desk, though, his own name written on the side of it bearing testament that it was indeed the same one. Why was she keeping that?

She focused his attention by taking hold of his outstretched hands, squeezing them in her own as if trying to still them. She'd removed her mask and gloves while he'd been staring around him and now stood in front of him, the definition of authority and powerful grace. Lance didn't know how it was possible to be so full of fear and reverence, but that's exactly what he felt.

"How often does this happen?" She asked him, jerking her chin toward their hands. He wasn't sure how to answer her. There wasn't an exact system to it. He hadn't taken notes on himself, and he couldn't always predict when it would strike. "Is it every time?"

"Every time what?" He asked, unclear what she wanted. Every time he set an IV? No, he did that fifty times a shift at the donation center, to the point where sometimes he caught himself not paying as much attention as he should. After every ambulance run? Again no. There just wasn't a clear pattern and he didn't know what she was referring to. She rolled her eyes to her ceiling, dropping his hands.

"What do you think?" She snapped, and he flinched. She tilted her head at his reaction, backing off and visibly gentling herself before going on, her patience spread thin in her voice. "But it's happened before?" He nodded. "A lot?" That made him shrug. He didn't know what either of them considered a lot, and he was growing afraid of giving any answer as her frustration with him became more and more apparent.

"Ugh, you're such a _mess_, Lance, honestly. Here, make yourself useful." She unceremoniously picked up a coffee mug full of pencils and thumped it on the desk in front of him. He almost asked her what he was supposed to do with it when he spotted the electronic sharpener near his elbow. She wanted him to sharpen pencils? Ok. Whatever. He selected a plain yellow one first, struggling a little with the trembling in order to connect the tip with the tiny hole in the sharpener, leaving gray smudges around the edge.

"Does it always last this long?" Angelique tried a different question, thankfully one he did know the answer to.

"No," he replied, listening to her carefully over the grinding of the sharpener but keeping his gaze fixed on the pencils, weary through to his soul. "It's never gone on this long."

"And what do you normally do to handle it? Does Dr. Coran know?"

"I don't . . ," Lance stammered, never believing he'd ever have to talk about this and not sure how to start now. "No, he doesn't. I don't usually let anyone . . . Dr. Delacroix, do you know why I'm like this? What's wrong with me?"

"Who said that? What makes you think there's something wrong with you?" Angelique's questions came out of her so quickly, like gunfire, sharp and hard. Lance felt tears sting his eyes again. There had to be something wrong with him. Some weakness or fault in his system that rendered him helpless after certain emergencies. He couldn't imagine it happening to other doctors – not to Coran, never to Angelique.

Dr. Delacroix sighed, rather dramatically, snatching a box of tissues from under what looked like an oatmeal-colored cardigan and handing them over to Lance. "Here," she said, as close to gentle as Lance had ever heard her talk to him, though it was still a far cry from being actually gentle. "Lance, you're going to have to figure this out."

He nodded. He knew that. He'd been trying. Nothing he did seemed to make any difference. He'd sort of accepted that it was just how he was and he should get used to it. Plus this whole thing with Keith was way out of his league.

"It'll be a goddamn shame to lose you," she finished, almost too quiet for him to hear, making him pause.

"What?" He checked. Lose him how? In what context? From the med program? Was she going to kick him out?

"Keep working," she changed direction again. "You think those pencils are going to sharpen themselves?" Lance jerked at the abrupt switch in her tone and topic, taking another from the cup, unbalanced again just like before. He did not know how to have a functional conversation with this woman.

"It's not common," Angelique continued to talk, though they weren't looking at each other. She was leaning against her filing cabinet, arms crossed, mask dangling at her throat. "People like you." Like him? There were other people who went through this? Doctors? How did they control it? "Give me one of those tissues. Have you gone over the three methods of processing mental trauma in your classes yet?"

"No," he told her, standing immediately to comply, watching her intently now, as if she held the key to his future. She pointed to the pencil mug again, reminding him that he hadn't finished that assignment yet. He absently picked another from the group, hardly looking at the sharpener anymore.

"Let's say this tissue is an experience," she began once he'd started working again. "Something that requires you to think on your feet, have intense physical and mental focus. Most people's minds force them to process everything at once, in the moment, which overwhelms them to the point where they mess up, slow down, or become incapacitated. In some ways, that's protective, and it's healthiest as you can deal with each situation as a whole, a unit, though it can be limiting to someone with your career goals – someone who needs to make rapid, sure decisions and then act on them. I admit, I thought you were like this when I had you in here before; I mean, you were so nervous you couldn't keep your hands still enough to hold a cup of coffee." She paused, pulling the tissue into its two separate layers, leaving them connected at only one corner.

"Seems I was wrong," she admitted. "There's no way a person with that processing style could have threaded that IV like you did. Even I couldn't have done it in the back of an ambulance. But the extreme reaction you're having to that is what puts you in the second group. You can separate experiences as they come at you, dealing with them compartmentally and at different times. But they are still connected for you, and you have no choice but to deal with them all at some point. It lets you perform astonishingly well in the moment, but then afterward you have to handle the stress repercussions. This might be the hardest group to fall in – it's a bit like having dissociative identity disorder."

Lance jerked his head up from the pencil he'd just replaced into the mug. Yes, that was it! That was exactly it. One part of him performed the actions while a different part felt the stress of them.

"You know what this type of processing is good for?" Angelique asked, the separated tissue still in her hands. Lance didn't even try to come up with an answer. He chose another pencil.

"People who process this way make excellent surgeons," she continued. "Also they do well in the chaos of emergency rooms. You'll see a lot of them in the military because they work so well under incredible pressure, but Lance, listen carefully now. It's important. You have to come up with some method of handling the aftershock. Since you're processing it outside of the experience, your mind can't figure out a clear stopping point. It doesn't have an ending. Without one, you'll keep going over it in your head, your system will continue producing cortisol and adrenaline in excess – that's what makes you so shaky, but it does other damage over prolonged periods. Your memory will even start to show you all the ways something could have gone horribly wrong in an infinite loop, and you'll start second guessing yourself and your decisions. This is a cycle that will start building one experience over the other until it crushes you."

"Like burnout?" Lance asked innocently, tuned in to every word Dr. Delacroix was saying. He'd never before heard his own feelings explained to him so clearly before. Never knew anyone else could even understand it enough to have a clear explanation. Never had it make so much sense.

"Like suicide," she corrected, her voice cold. This was the first time since she'd started talking that he recoiled from her. She'd had it correct right up until this point. That was so far from his mind; that was something he was certain he'd never do.

"Well," Lance stuttered. "That's not. . .I'm not going to . . I would never. . ." She pushed away from the cabinet, disturbingly quickly, suddenly inches away from him, slamming her hands on her desk, leaning down to stare fiercely into his face.

"Shut your mouth. That's the easiest thing to say right now; you're just starting out. I'm not talking about a gun in your mouth kind of suicide. I'm talking about drinking too much after work, taking prescribed medications for too long without cause. The slowest most painful kind. You'll be able to do it for years because when you're in the moment no one will even be able to tell. You'll destroy yourself in private. You can't sit there and tell me that you know it won't happen to you. Not a single person who has done it, or come close to it, thinks that's how it will go for them. But it is a _pattern_, and you are falling right into it. Coran isn't doing you any favors either, pushing you faster than your classes can keep up, trying to get you cleared for life flight service. It's nonsense. What are you? Second year of pre-med?"

"Y. . yes," Lance replied, completely rattled, surprised she even knew that, shocked that she seemed to know so much about him at all. Frightened by what she'd just said.

"You shouldn't be doing what you're doing. You shouldn't even know how. I don't care how good you are at it; you're going too fast and too far without building the proper coping mechanisms for dealing with it and it's going to break you."

Lance swallowed hard, intimidated by how passionate she had become over his training, how forcefully she was trying to make him understand. Why did she care so much? But even if she were right, about some of it, definitely not all of it, how could he stop now? The people he'd helped. What would they have done if he hadn't rushed his learning? He wasn't going to kill himself; she was overreacting. He knew better than that. So he shook a little sometimes after doing hard things. It usually resolved quickly and more often than not, it seemed worth it. He'd never thought about doing any of the things she'd just said.

"But what about Keith," he protested, not knowing how he found the strength to contradict her except that he felt he had to make this one point for himself. "He could have died if I hadn't gone ahead in my training. If I didn't know what to do for him."

"No, you would have brought him to the hospital sooner like a_ sensible pre-med student_, and he could have received treatment before he got critical. I'm disappointed in Coran; if he examined him this morning, he should have known to bring him in. The responsibility for that should have never been yours."

Lance curled up a little at her words, how she'd so quickly and firmly put him in his place. How she was so right, and he'd even known that before she'd told him. He'd had red flags about it almost from the very start. He shouldn't have kept Keith at the apartment. He had thought it was up to him, stubbornly, even after so many others had told him that Keith wasn't his sole responsibility. Pidge had tried to tell him. What had he been thinking?

"So what do I do?" He asked, hoping she wouldn't say something like 'quit medicine' or anything like that.

"How are those pencils coming?" She returned, frustrating and confusing him simultaneously. What the hell was with the pencils? He needed some guidance here. He picked up the mug, tilting it toward her so she could see that every single one now had a sharp point – unlike her lecture. "And your hands?" Again, he humored her, hoping that if he did they could get back to actually answering his question. If it was as serious as she seemed to think it was, then he could really use some input on how to prevent his own destruction – or prevent him from screwing up another patient.

Setting the mug carefully on top of a pile of notes, he spread his hands out so she could see them, though he ended up studying them more than she did, amazed at the change. She smiled in self-satisfaction, standing straight again, watching him as he turned them over incredulously. The tremor had stopped. He was back to normal – at least where the steadiness of his hands was concerned.

"I suggest you learn to knit," she told him. He shifted his gaze from his hands back to her face. Learn to what? "Or some other small, repetitive, portable task. I like knitting since it produces theta brainwaves, has distinct start and stop points to anchor your mind to, and if you get good at it, you'll have a coping mechanism and socks all in one." Lance let out a breath, feeling as though he'd just staggered off a wildly spinning carnival ride. Knitting? Really? Though. . .she seemed to be correct about that too. Sharpening pencils was also a mindless, repetitive task, and that had obviously worked.

"I also strongly suggest you slow down," she went on, taking his hands in hers like before to return his attention to what she was saying. "You're so young. You have a very promising career ahead of you. There's no need to rush it. There's also no need to ruin it," her voice gained volume and speed, shifting topics again before he'd had a chance to wrap his mind around the last one, before he'd finished being astonished at how she'd worked such an effortless miracle with his hands. Something he'd been struggling with for years.

"Obviously, you can't unlearn what you already know," she told him, releasing him again. "But I am going to insist that you stick only to procedures that you are cleared for. You're only allowed to cannulate donors at the plasma center during your regular shifts and _nowhere_ _else_."

"So . . . you're not going to revoke my EMT credentials?" Lance hesitated to ask, but he wanted to be clear about it.

"I should, but no, I'm not," she replied, reluctantly. "You should be focusing solely on your classes right now, but then again, you are very talented, Lance, and the program is better because you're in it. Your skills have been crucial in saving lives, including your friend's today, but unless you get yourself balanced, you won't be an asset to anyone for every long. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," Lance agreed, though he was internally resisting it. Despite her heavy warning, he was still certain he'd never take anything that far.

"All right, now let's take a look at your back."

"It's superficial," Lance dismissed, feeling lighter after their strange, scary, and yet somehow productive conversation. He wasn't being kicked out. Dr. Delacroix had spun him around mercilessly, but it seemed that it had been to centrifuge some emotional weight from him. Despite the confusion, he felt a little better. More resolved and focused. "I'm fine now. We can go back to the emergency room so you can do your real job."

"My shift ended half an hour ago," Angelique informed him, surprising him yet again. She'd been talking here in her office with him on her own time. Lance felt humbled; he hadn't known that she'd thought him worth so much effort. "Now take off your shirt, please."

Lance didn't really want to; he'd already taken enough of her time, but there was never a point in trying to do anything but what Dr. Delacroix told him to, so for the second time that day, he pulled his shirt over his head, exposing his damaged back.

"Oh, honey," Angelique breathed at once, and Lance realized that he was now, without a doubt, no longer a student to her. He'd become in that one instant a patient. . . .and he thought he was okay with it now. He didn't think it would cause him to crumble for her to be caring towards him anymore. "That's a little bit more than superficial. Still, not too bad. Let me get it cleaned up for you. How did it happen? Something about a table?"

While Angelique gathered some first aid supplies from the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, Lance started talking. He told her about taking care of Keith and how he'd collapsed in the living room. How Lance had tried to catch him but ended up falling over onto the coffee table. He winced as she started cleaning it, blinking curiously at the small pile of antiseptic wipes she dropped into the waste basket at the side of her desk. They were bloody. Which would explain why his shirt had been sticking to him.

"There's some deep bruising here," Dr. Delacroix told him as she worked. "It's going to be tender for a few days, but the bleeding's all done if you're careful. There's just the one scrape, almost the entire length of your back. Have someone help you put antibiotic ointment on it twice a day to keep it from getting infected. What about this one? What'd you do here?" Angelique sat him up straight with pressure on his shoulders and lightly touched a spot on his chest – the place where Keith had flung his textbook at him. There was a bruise there that he hadn't noticed yet. "And here?" She brushed the back of her hand, gloved again, against his cheek. Lance looked down at the desk and the pencil mug, replacing his shirt, wishing he could hide all his wounds inside the fabric. He already knew how those injuries would be taken out of context, and he wasn't sure how to explain them. Unfortunately, Angelique had the same training he did and picked up on his hesitation to answer immediately.

"Who has been hitting you, Lance?" She demanded. "How often does it happen?"

"It was Keith," Lance heard himself confess. Somehow, this tiger of a woman was drawing the truth out of him. Somehow, she was going to demand all of his secrets before letting him go. And somehow, he was ok with that. "Only the one time. And I know what it looks like, but it really was my fault."

He watched her struggle to keep her face neutral, not believing him, but trying not to judge without his explanation. "I'm listening."

She meant it, and because she was so still, focused on his every word, he found himself telling her way more than he'd intended. He spoke of the English assignment, the textbook, the punch to his face and then following Keith home to his apartment. He told her how empty it was, how broken Keith was, went into perhaps too much detail about how hard Keith could stare at a mug of soup. His desire to help Keith poured out of him, rushing and raw, ending with the consuming helplessness he felt about what would happen to Keith now, the outcome of the trial. How Lance felt that somehow even that had been taken out of context like the bruise on his face, but he didn't know how to get anyone to see it that way, didn't know how to save Keith from the system that had ruined and abandoned him. He didn't even know what he should do now. It seemed so obvious he should go home. It seemed so obvious that he shouldn't.

He hadn't noticed he was crying again until he felt Angelique dab at his face with a tissue. He hadn't noticed that she was holding his hand again. He hadn't known that his emotions were so twisted up around Keith, this boy he had only just met, until he began verbally untwisting them out loud . . . to Dr. Delacroix of all people.

"I should go home, shouldn't I?" Lance sniffled as he finished, hoping that she also had a clear answer for this problem the way she had for everything else so far this afternoon. She smiled, shaking her head.

"Now what's the point of asking me a question like that when you've already made a decision? You don't want me to tell you what you should do. You want me to confirm that the choice you want to make is the right one."

Lance tilted his head toward her curiously, feeling a little guilty. She was right . . . again. But so what? What would be so hard about doing that?

"But I can't do that; I don't know what the right choice is," Angelique confessed, though by this point Lance expected no less. It hadn't even been fair to ask her. This was still his problem. "But I know what you're doing to do, and I know what I saw."

Lance didn't know what to make of that. He'd been continuously surprised since he'd come into her office by all the things she knew about him. Some he'd told her himself the last time she'd interrogated him here, but there were other things he hadn't said. There was the coffee cup still on the desk. He wondered if she'd been watching him. But for what? He waited to see if she'd explain what she meant. What did she see?

"I need to head home," Angelique said, rather abruptly, standing and gathering her coat from the back of her desk chair. Wait, Lance wanted to say. You can't leave yet. I still don't know what to do. "My next shift starts tomorrow morning at eight, but Keith will still be here then."

"You're admitting him?" Lance asked.

"Not yet. I need to see the data from the EKG before deciding how long he needs to stay."

"So he's going to be stuck in triage all night?" Lance checked. The emergency room turned into a surreal sort of place after nightfall. It was never perfectly quiet, but the stillness it did have possessed a physical weight. Lights were turned down until everything glowed a sickly sort of yellow. Haunted and strange. Lance didn't like the idea of Keith staying here without him. Not in triage. Not in the negative pressure room they had stashed him in due to his potential communicable disease. Not connected to an EKG machine. It was creepy.

"I don't have much choice. It's hospital policy, but I think it'd be good to have a friend stay with him," Angelique gently suggested, pulling a faux suede purse from her desk drawer, fishing in it for keys. "At least until I come in tomorrow."

"Right," Lance acknowledged what she'd indirectly said. "Um, Dr. Delacroix? What did you mean . . . what you saw?" Angelique raised an arm, indicating he should head out toward the hallway.

"Well, I didn't see two strangers who just met yesterday," she told him as they walked slowly side by side, the office closed and dark behind them. "I actually thought he was your boyfriend."

Lance abruptly stopped walking, felt heat rise in his face. That had been something else Pidge had brought up that wasn't true, but now that the idea had been introduced, it didn't seem possible for it to disappear again.

"Forgive me," Angelique apologized, a few steps ahead and noticing the effect her words had on Lance. "Don't forget I apparently specialize in making incorrect assumptions about you."

"No, I . . . " Lance trailed off, feeling more awkward in this moment than he had with his shirt off. She'd thought they were together. Why? "I'm just trying to help him get better."

"Well," Angelique said, moving on. "Bringing him in was a good start, and now you have some time. Maybe you two can talk tonight. I think maybe there are some answers you're looking for that only he could give you. Maybe you should think about asking him instead of asking me."

"Dr. Delacroix?"

"Take care of yourself, Lance," she said, shifting into the hallway that would take her to the staff parking structure. He would go the opposite direction, back to the emergency room. She was gone before he could thank her.

Lance didn't see many people on his way back to Keith's room. There was Reggie, the security guard at the door, who knew Lance and had seen him leave earlier with Angelique. He made Lance pause long enough to get a proper nametag sticker before he let him back in anyway, as was required by all visitors entering the secured area. Lance tried to think of something teasing to say about it, but found he didn't have the energy.

The emergency room was curved like a horseshoe that had been pulled apart at the edges – the entrance for the ambulances on one end and the entrance for civilians on the other. The center of the U housed cabinets and the nurses' station. Along the other rounded wall were curtained doorways leading to small treatment rooms, carts and machines parked between them, seemingly at random. Down near the ambulance side were the three negative pressure rooms, different in that they had their own air supply and firmly fitted doors. They were larger than the others to accommodate more equipment inside. Beside the clipboard rack near each of those doors was a hand sanitizer station and two boxes secured to the wall. One for gloves and the other for masks. Whoever entered one of these rooms was usually required to wear both to prevent disease transfer and there was a sign posted indicating that. But since Lance was only here for Keith tonight and he'd already been more than exposed, he didn't feel the need to put on any protective gear. He paused before going in, peering inside the window.

He didn't have a good grasp on how long he'd been gone; it felt like a very long time, but the only thing that had really changed in the room since he'd left it was that Officer Guist was nowhere to be seen. He'd said he needed to leave before talking with Lance, so that wasn't so surprising. Shiro had remained. He stood guard over Keith's bed, his back perfectly straight, head reverently lowered, eyes fixed on Keith's sleeping face. His remaining hand held tight to Keith's, his fingers closed over his as if he were afraid that Keith could disappear at any moment. He looked as though he could maintain that position, never moving, never shifting, for all of eternity, his face a mask of duty and devotion.

The scene felt so special and closed that Lance hesitated at the door. They were finally together; he shouldn't intrude. Angelique had said Keith should have a friend with him, but Lance didn't think it mattered too much which one. In fact, Keith would probably prefer Shiro. They had a longer history and probably had more to discuss. They probably wouldn't want Lance listening in on their private conversations tonight. If his backpack and coat weren't inside the room on the floor, he would have left them without their ever knowing he'd been there. Actually, maybe he'd just come back later and get his stuff. Yeah, that'd be fine. He turned to go, but his movement across the glass windows of the room must have caught Shiro's attention because he hadn't made it very far before he heard his name called behind him.

"Lance, there you are."

Lance paused, turning awkwardly to see Shiro beckoning him from the doorway. He hadn't meant for that to happen, but at least this way he could have his coat before going outside. With his hands in his pockets, he slowly obeyed Shiro's summons.

"I was getting worried," Shiro told him, opening the door wider to let him in. Lance paused. Why would Shiro be worried about him? "Are you feeling better?"

"I'm fine," Lance murmured dismissively. "How's Keith?"

"I think you'd know better than I would. He hasn't woken up since you left, but he's been talking in his sleep. He's asked for you a few times."

"He did?" Lance couldn't believe it. "That's strange."

"Oh, he's always been like that. Ever since I've known him," Shiro responded, misunderstanding what Lance meant.

"No, I know," Lance clarified. "It's just . . last night he was asking for you."

Shiro stared at him, as if his mind were short circuited by the information Lance had just shared. He looked touched, remorseful, hurt. Lance wondered if telling him had been a good idea. They stood looking at each other, Shiro just inside the room and Lance just outside of it, held together by Keith.

"Did you need to leave?" Shiro asked, noticing how Lance wasn't coming inside. Yes, Lance thought. While I still can. Except he already knew he couldn't. "Can you stay for a while?"

"Sure," Lance heard himself agree, no longer able to fight the invitation, the insistent pull he felt coming from where Keith was sleeping. It may be another poor decision, but what was one more added to his already impressive list? Keith had asked for him.

"Where's the doctor?" Shiro kept on with the questions as Lance woodenly submitted to a long night in triage.

"She went home; her shift's over," Lance answered, glad these were still easy questions. He couldn't imagine what else Shiro might want to know. The things Lance wanted to ask himself. "She'll be back tomorrow at eight to read Keith's data and see what to do." As he spoke, he noticed the bulk of the EKG machine resting on a cart pushed close to Keith. Saw the twelve lines connected to the electrodes and the growing printout of lines, all detailing how effective Keith's heart was being at delivering oxygen-rich blood to his body. Lance had no idea how to read it.

"Keith has to stay here until then?" Shiro asked, surprised. Lance doubted he'd ever hung out in triage like this before if that shocked him. Once a patient was stable, it could often take hours and hours to decide what to do with them. Sometimes, especially for someone who probably hadn't needed to come to the emergency room in the first place, they could almost be forgotten in the wake of incoming emergencies.

"That's what Dr. Delacroix said," he replied, shrugging. "He'll probably need to stay even longer depending on his condition." Most patients who had heart episodes like Keith's were kept for at least three days, with regular doses of medication to keep their hearts beating regularly and a steady monitoring of how it was performing. Lance was more surprised that Keith hadn't been admitted already than that he would be staying at all.

"Lance?" Keith twisted on the bed, as if trying to turn toward the sound of his voice. His hand lifted weakly, as if searching for him, and Lance was powerless not to go to him. When he got close he saw that he wasn't awake. He'd been talking in his sleep just as Shiro said. Lance took his hand anyway, watching as Shiro returned to his position on Keith's other side.

"I'm right here," Lance assured in a voice little more than a whisper. "_Duerma_."

He felt Shiro studying him curiously, felt the pressure of question as heavy as the snow-laden clouds outside. With Keith between them, Lance raised his eyes to meet Shiro's.

"Can I ask you something?" Shiro began at the same time Lance said, "I have so many questions." 

**Author's Note: Hi again – did you like it? Not a whole lot of Keith and Lance time in this chapter, but I think everyone could use the break. Angelique remains a pillar of strength and wonder to me (I love her so much) and I'm looking forward to the fight she's going to have with Coran later about wrecking Lance. (ooh, sorry Coran) Though, Lance has every tendency to wreck himself if he thinks someone needs him. But before we go into that – there's a long night ahead. Lots of things to figure out in a quiet, lonely triage room.**


	13. Quid Pro Quo

**Author's Note: Wow, time goes by so fast. It didn't help that this chapter slows down so much from the previous ones. What do you get when you have two strangers standing on either side of a hospital bed in complete silence – the boy they are both worried about sleeping between them? You get an awkward conversation, that's what. But that's what has to happen if we want any progress, so . . . shall we?**

**Chapter Thirteen: Quid Pro Quo**

"I don't know if I can answer everything," Shiro gave the caveat before Lance had figured out what he even wanted to ask.

"It's none of my business, really," Lance acknowledged, still pinned awkwardly to Keith's side. He held onto Keith's hand, noticing that Keith had curled toward Lance on the hospital bed, as close as he could get without falling off. Actually, Lance wanted to scoot him closer toward the center. This bed didn't have that good of a guard rail to prevent that sort of thing, and Lance already knew he wouldn't be able to catch him.

"I think all the things I want to know fall into that category too," Shiro admitted. "How about this? No restrictions on questions asked, but we both reserve the right not to answer. Deal?"

"Deal," Lance accepted readily, liking Shiro more and more by the minute, even though Lance was still so confused as to why Keith hadn't wanted to contact him. Shiro seemed so friendly, and Keith obviously loved and trusted him. It made no sense. Just one question in his overwhelming list. "You can start."

Shiro let out a breath, unprepared for this invitation. Lance understood completely, which is why he wanted Shiro to begin what would probably be a lengthy back and forth. Lance had so many questions that he was hoping whatever Shiro asked would prompt him to actually choose one.

"All right," Shiro stalled, unsure. He had his head tilted, looking with painful affection at Keith. Lance had a hard time reading his face; it was so conflicted. There was so much love there, but also so much hurt. Even though Shiro had said it was all right, Lance wondered if asking about what happened between them might not be too personal to bring up.

"Who are you?" Shiro began bluntly, making Lance smile, a little tiredly. This _was_ going to be a lengthy discussion.

"No one . . .just a boy from Cuba," Lance answered, knowing it was pathetic, but he thought they had more important things to talk about. He was by far the least interesting participant in this entire thing. Shiro stared at him, his mouth a neutral line.

"You're not _just_ anything," he contradicted. "I've never seen anyone like you before. How did you know how to do all that? The pickle juice? The IV? The . . . synchronization thing? It was incredible."

Lance was at a loss; it hadn't been that incredible. And according to Dr. Delacroix, none of it would have been necessary if he'd just brought Keith in sooner. He was still feeling ashamed of himself for that.

"I do IVs all the time," he shrugged it off. "I work as a tech in the plasma donation center at the other end of the hospital. And I'm an EMT, so we're taught to use what we have available in the field. I didn't have the medication I needed, so the pickle juice was the best I could think of to keep Keith's blood pressure up." Lance stopped; he didn't even want to address the synchronization thing. That had been the longest shot he'd ever taken and he still wasn't too convinced that it had done anything useful.

Shiro paused too, deep in thought, processing, very lightly brushing his fingers against Keith's forehead, needing to touch him but not wanting to wake him. Keith murmured something, turning his head toward Shiro without releasing Lance's hand.

"I'm grateful you were there," Shiro almost whispered. "I had no idea he was so bad. Can you tell me what's wrong with him? What happened?" 

"No one's told you anything?" Lance answered with another question, surprised that Shiro had been so long in the room with Keith without anyone giving him any information. Shiro looked frustrated, but not with Lance.

"The nurse who hooked up that thing said a little," Shiro said, gesturing toward the EKG machine. "Something about his heart beating irregularly, but I think I'd understand more if I heard it from you. It seems you've been with him longer and probably know the most." There was just a hint of distrust in Shiro's words, and Lance knew he was thinking back to how Lance had denied knowing Keith. How that most certainly looked like a huge lie after Keith had been discovered in Lance's bedroom. How they had appeared to Dr. Delacroix like a couple. Lance found it interesting how many facts about Keith seemed like lies but were actually the truth. Also how many things looked like the truth but actually weren't. Somehow Keith seemed to twist perception so that everyone who looked at him or spoke to him came away with a completely inaccurate picture. Lance found that difficult and frustrating.

"Well, I'm not a doctor, and I don't know anything for sure," Lance began with the proper language, taking care that whatever he said next could not be quoted as an official stance on Keith's condition. Shiro's face hardened as Lance spoke, so he cut the disclaimers short. Looks like they were the same in wanting to just get into the facts and forget all the protocol.

"We think he has the flu," Lance started over, then hurried to explain better as he saw Shiro's eyebrows crunch together in almost offended disbelief. They both knew the flu didn't look like this. "Or at least it started that way. I'm pretty sure he's anemic too, but the lab work hasn't come back to confirm either of those things. All I do know is that he has a very high fever, he's dehydrated, he hasn't been taking care of himself for a while, and some combination of those things messed up his heartrate, which consequently lowered his blood pressure and oxygen intake level."

"How close were we to losing him?" Shiro went on, making Lance slightly nauseated. He didn't want to think about that again, didn't want to talk about it. Wasn't it enough that they hadn't lost him? Did Shiro really need to know how bad it had been? Especially since Lance didn't think he was the only one blaming himself for how sick Keith was. He felt that Shiro was thinking it was his fault too, even though that was impossible. He hadn't even known.

Unconsciously, Lance slipped two of his fingers out of Keith's hand so they could cover his pulse on his wrist. He could clearly see the heart rate on the monitor just behind Shiro's shoulder, but somehow it was a comfort to feel it. Still beating. Steady at last. Medicinally slowed. Maybe it would be ok to say how bad it had been since it seemed they were slowly coming away from that place, hopefully never to go back there again. Maybe if they acknowledged it, they could let it go.

"The only other patient I saw who was like that didn't make it to the hospital," Lance told Shiro, surprisingly keeping his voice steady. Shiro covered Keith's shoulder with his hand, as if frightened that Keith might disappear and that he could keep Keith's spirit in his body with the contact.

"Could it happen again?" Shiro wondered.

"Maybe, but I think he's going to be ok now," Lance reassured. "He probably won't crash again. Not with the drugs he's getting, and the lab will figure out what caused it soon which will bring down the chances even more."

"I just don't understand," Shiro said, not talking to Lance anymore, looking forlornly at Keith. "You should have called me."

"I don't think he knew he could," Lance answered for Keith, making a guess. He watched shame and sadness drip down Shiro's face in place of tears. "When was the last time you saw Keith, Shiro?"

Because it seemed as though it had been a while. It seemed that Shiro had been so completely shocked at how Keith looked when he saw him again in Lance's apartment, not just that he was there, but that he'd changed from Shiro's last memory. It seemed like they had so much history, but then something had broken between them. Lance wasn't sure which of them had done the breaking, but he thought that maybe it could be mended now that they were back together. If they had a mediator to help them.

"It's been more than a year," Shiro revealed. "It was right after he . . . he was seventeen then."

"Why so long? What happened?" The words were out of Lance's mouth even though he knew it probably wasn't a question that could be answered. Nor could any of the others that had popped into his head after Shiro's verbal backtracking. Right after he what? What had Shiro almost said? If it had been over a year ago, then had there been anyone with Keith throughout the trial? Had he been alone there? Shiro looked confused and hurt, so Lance decided to elaborate just to give him more time to decide whether he was going to answer or not.

"When I asked Keith who to contact in case of an emergency, he gave me your name," Lance began, wanting Shiro to know that. "But then he got upset when I suggested we call you, just to let you know where he was and what was going on, and he made me promise not to do that."

"I bet," Shiro muttered, bitter, looking at Keith with exasperation.

"I thought it was because . . . I'm sorry, but I thought he was hiding from you. I thought maybe you'd hurt him." Shiro stiffened, opening his mouth, causing Lance to lift a peaceable hand toward him. "Keith didn't say that, though; he actually wouldn't talk about you at all. At least not when he was conscious." Lance paused, wondering if he could repeat these things out loud, if he could actually stand here and tell Shiro what Keith had said when he thought he'd been talking to him. He wondered if Keith would be ok with it if Lance did tell Shiro those things. Maybe that would be going too far? No, this wasn't a bridge that had burned; there were simply boards of information missing, some simple misunderstanding. And if Lance were reading the situation right, he thought that it might be more helpful to their relationship if he did disclose to Shiro what Keith had said during that vulnerable night when he'd been completely open.

"Conscious?" Shiro prompted when Lance's silence continued too long. "You said he asked for me in his sleep before. Is that what you mean?"

"Not exactly. He wasn't really sleeping during this. His fever spiked last night," Lance explained. "It was so high it burned second degree blisters all over his mouth. He said all kinds of things. I don't even know if all of them are true, but mostly he begged for you. He wanted you to listen to him, believe him." Lance hesitated momentarily, seeing what he was doing to Shiro. He felt as though he were beating him with his words, like this was a mental torture session instead of an explanation. He went on anyway; he felt like he should. "He asked to stay with you. He cried about it. He said he was sorry. He said it so many times."

"What's your question?" Shiro asked, voice hard. Lance could tell he'd steeled it on purpose to keep himself from sounding too emotional, that he was pleading for another question so they could switch topics. He saw how much Shiro was struggling to keep calm.

"I asked Keith again if we couldn't call you this morning since it seemed he wanted you with him last night, but he told me that he thought you didn't care about him and he still didn't want to contact you. But I can see that's not true at all; you both obviously care about each other a lot. So I guess I'm asking what happened between you?"

"Keith doesn't think that anyone cares about him," Shiro muttered, still sounding bitter, though there was more sadness to his tone than before. "And he does his best to stop anyone from trying. But in our case . . .I made a mistake."

"You don't have to answer," Lance reminded him about their agreement, seeing how much this was hurting Shiro to hear, to think and talk about. He still wanted to know, but it looked as though he were going to have to drop it.

"What else did he say?" Shiro asked instead. "Last night?"

Lance took a moment to wrap his emotions tight, preparing to give that information up, knowing it would be hard but also knowing it would be a relief not to bear it alone anymore.

"He was delirious for hours," Lance cautioned. "It was . . . bad. Are you sure you want –"

"Yes," Shiro said, the closest to a demand that Lance had yet heard from him.

"There were a lot of fragments," Lance tried to organize this better, give some sort of summary of the disjointed, distressing wounds in Keith's spirit that he had given voice to in the dark. "He seemed afraid of being left behind or left alone. He asked over and over why he couldn't stay with you." Shiro winced, again as if Lance had hit him, but motioned for Lance to continue. "He also kept asking for someone to believe him. Mostly, it seemed he was speaking to you, but he mentioned . . . mentioned someone else too. He was so scared. He said -" Nope. Lance couldn't do it. Not yet. The words were sticking in his throat. He had to change the subject again, sensing that this conversation would keep circling around the biggest issue, the deep sucking abyss of the murder trial and the events that caused it, in an awkward, uncontrolled whirlpool.

"Shiro, who hurt him?" Lance shifted instead of finishing. "I've seen the scars . . . Someone burned him. How come no one did anything to stop it?"

"I stopped it," Shiro declared, and Lance suddenly saw what Shiro had been once, not all that long ago. A soldier, a leader, and a defender – powerful and protective. If he wanted to, Shiro could easily be the most frightening person that Lance had ever met. Lance knew he never wanted to see what Shiro was capable of, didn't want to witness the situation that would require him to bring it into the open. All the cautions Lance had received so far about Keith being dangerous seemed suddenly weak to him. Keith wasn't dangerous, not at all. But Shiro could be.

"You said you were his social worker?" Lance asked, feeling unsteady at Shiro's intense change in tone, feeling his understanding of the situation shift once again. Shiro looked too young to have been Keith's only social worker; he couldn't have been the one assigned to him initially, when he was orphaned at four with no other relatives. "You don't look it," Lance murmured, mostly to himself as he tried to figure out how Shiro had gone from what had most certainly been a military background to working as a liaison for minors in a district office.

"I suppose not," Shiro acknowledged, letting Lance know that he'd heard him, the edge gone from his voice, softening once more. "But you don't look like an EMT either."

"I'm sorry," Lance apologized. "I'm just trying to figure this out."

"I used to be in the Air Force," Shiro disclosed, and Lance could tell that something in his resolve had broken free, that he was not going to guard information as closely anymore, at least not his own personal information. Lance wasn't sure what he'd said that had made Shiro decide to trust him, or maybe he'd said nothing and Shiro just wanted to vocalize his own memories. Whatever the reason, Lance kept very still so as not to distract Shiro at all from what he was saying. "I piloted an F-35, but then this happened," he lifted his prosthetic, letting Lance fill in the gaps for the how and where of the injury, "and I was put on medical leave." Medical leave? Not honorably discharged? This nuance confused Lance, who didn't understand a whole lot about the United States military program. Did that mean that Shiro was technically still in the Air Force? He wasn't sure. The only thing he did know was that being a pilot of an F-35 was a big deal, that it was a fighter plane and that there weren't very many of them. His respect for Shiro deepened.

"The social worker position sort of fell into my lap, and Keith's file was literally dropped into it. He was thirteen; no one knew what to do with him. He kept running away, getting into fights. I think giving him to me was supposed to be some kind of hazing thing, or maybe they thought I could use some military tactic to get him in line."

Lance felt his heart harden at this. He didn't know any of the people Shiro was talking about, but he hated their casual laziness. They were supposed to protect Keith; he'd been four years old. But it sounded like they passed him around the office, his file drifting from desk to desk.

"I was new," Shiro continued. "Keith was my first case. I went to visit him just to get acquainted, but as soon as I saw him I knew something wasn't right. I didn't really know what I was doing, what the procedure was for removing a child from an unsafe place, but I knew I had to get him out of there. I gave him ten minutes to pack a bag while I argued with his foster mother. Then all of a sudden he was in the car with me and I just . . brought him home. He slept on my couch all that weekend. We ate ramen and watched movies. He didn't act anything like the kid I'd read about in his file; I thought that maybe I'd somehow picked up the wrong one. I don't think we even talked about any of it, and it was like Keith had always been there."

Lance felt the corners of his mouth trying to lift upwards. Basically, he and Shiro had done the exact same thing. Walk in unexpectedly on Keith, find him in trouble, then take him home without thinking too much about what that might mean, what sort of consequences there would be.

"By Monday, we were both in trouble," Shiro went on, and the tiny smile that had started in Lance disappeared again. "My supervisor was furious. She made it very clear that under absolutely no circumstances was I to remove a child from their foster home unless she gave her permission first and we had the paperwork in place. Keith's foster mom was in the office, putting up a good front that all she wanted was to have him back home again. She'd left crying phone messages all weekend."

"But she was lying?" Lance prompted, sensing from Shiro's tone of frustration that Keith's foster mom was not as generous or nurturing as she was supposed to be. "How did you know?"

"It just felt wrong," Shiro said, unable to explain himself in that area. "I demanded that we ask Keith where he wanted to be. From the looks on their faces, you'd think that no one had ever thought to do that before. Including Keith. He said he wanted to go home with me again, but we weren't allowed to do that."

"Why not?" Lance asked, not understanding. If that's what Keith had wanted, and if Shiro were ok with it too, then what would stop them?

"It's actually against the law," Shiro revealed, his tone indicating that he thought it was not the best law. "I'd never been cleared to have foster children in my apartment. I didn't have permission to keep or care for him, just work with him in officially appropriate locations. It didn't matter that he was being hurt, or that I wanted him with me."

"So it was all for nothing?" Lance wondered. "He had to go back?"

"No. That was the one good thing that came out of it. I had a doctor look at Keith for the first time, and there was more than enough evidence to keep him separated from his host family. There was an inquiry, and the office discovered that the mom had been lying for months. When she'd been cleared to foster, she'd been married. It had been what appeared to be a steady household. The couple had successfully fostered many children before, infants to teenagers, sometimes up to four at a time. But somewhere during Keith's stay, the husband had moved out and the man she'd been cheating on him with moved in. She decided not to tell us since with her husband gone, she wanted the monthly stipend for keeping Keith."

Lance was getting the picture now. How awful for Keith. Trapped and alone. Hurt by people who were supposed to be taking care of him, forced to accept consequences for choices he hadn't even made.

"Was it the boyfriend? Did he?" Lance asked, his voice dropping, unable to finish his question, angry and hurt. Did he burn Keith? Leave the scars on his back? Both Lance and Shiro had their hands on Keith, covering him protectively, keeping him safe from people who were not there, from situations that were already over. If only Lance had known him then. If only they'd been friends. He hadn't been living in the same country, but he still felt that somehow he could have helped him if only he had known.

"Yes," Shiro confirmed. "He didn't want Keith, but she was forcing him to stay. Keith said they fought about him a lot." And all that anger and fighting about him undoubtedly turned to neglect and violence toward him. And Keith hadn't thought to tell anyone, probably already knowing at that age that no one would listen to him if he tried.

"So then where did Keith go? If he couldn't stay with you and he didn't go back to them?"

"There weren't many options for Keith. He had a history and surprisingly the very people who are supposed to be advocates for children like Keith are sometimes prejudiced against them. It didn't help that he was a teenager by this point. No one wanted to bother with figuring out why he got into so many fights, why he ran away so often, why he was being difficult with his host parents. It's hard to find the time or the energy, I guess. Or after a while it seems people become desensitized to that kind of thing. There aren't enough resources, you know, so it's hard to keep struggling to fix a terribly broken system when it feels as though you're not making any progress or have any help."

Lance's soul fought hard against that statement, though he had seen it himself. He'd walked past the poor and hopeless leaning in doorways down the streets of Varadero. The places the tourists don't go. Saw the worry gather into the corners of his mother's eyes when she thought he wasn't looking. He had watched people turn away helplessly, putting effort into not seeing the starving children, the sick, the desperate, becoming purposefully deaf to them. Because sometimes knowing that you can't help them all makes it seem equally impossible to help even one. Lance wasn't willing to believe that though. He was going to help. All he could. He was going to ease suffering. Even though he had seen exactly the kind of attitude Shiro was talking of, he absolutely could not become like that. Could not agree that it was acceptable. No matter how long he had to fight for it. The consequences were too devastating. Look at what it had done to Keith.

"But he must have lived somewhere," Lance pushed. What happened to the children that weren't wanted in a private foster home and were not allowed to go with guardians who were willing but not legally able? How many were there?

"The best we could do was finding him a place in a group home. Not far from here, actually."

Lance sorted through this new information, picturing Keith in some sort of cold and weird building, a Dickensian orphanage set up, lines of beds against the walls full of random assortments of abandoned children. Somewhere Keith didn't belong. It was starting to make sense why Keith in his delirium had pleaded so hard to stay with Shiro. It may have been the first warm and comforting place he'd slept since he was four years old. The ramen could have been the first wholesome meal he'd had in months. And it also sounded as though it had done something good for Shiro too. Lance couldn't be sure; he'd only just met him a few hours ago in an atmosphere that was anything but calm, but there had been something in Shiro's voice when the spoke about Keith being there with him. Perhaps Shiro was another lonely, forgotten soul – wounded in combat and sent home with nothing but the shadow of his former life, memories that clung to him in the darkness of solitude. How different could their lives have been if an uncompromising law hadn't kept them from each other?

"Ok, so that was five years ago," Lance heard himself saying, putting together the jagged remnants of Shiro's memories that he'd been given. "Did Keith ever see them again? The people you saved him from?"

"Never," Shiro responded quickly. "The court ordered separation for life. She can never foster again, and he was fined."

"Fined?!" Lance said, louder than he should have, but he couldn't believe it. Keith had suffered abuse from this man for months, everyone knew about it, and the perpetrator was only fined? Where was the justice in that? If this was the man that Keith had killed, Lance could definitely see the motive. But Shiro had just said that Keith had never seen him again. That made Lance confused. The way Keith had spoken in his fever dream made it seem as though he'd been attacked by someone and fought back, resulting in an unintentional death. Judging from the scars and from what Shiro had just said, Lance could have sworn that Keith had been in one last altercation with his abuser. But if that wasn't who Keith had attacked and beaten. . .then who had it been? And why?

"I couldn't believe it either," Shiro agreed, speaking of the unfairly light punishment.

"But then what happened?" Lance pressed, becoming bolder in asking his questions. The further they went into Keith's past the more Lance wanted to know. Shiro was his social worker, but he hadn't seen Keith for over a year. What happened to Keith after he was transferred to the group home? What did Shiro know about Keith before he was thirteen? Anything?

"Actually, I was hoping I could take a turn asking questions," Shiro brought him up short, and Lance realized their conversation had been extremely one-sided in his favor. He lowered his head, nodding, though he couldn't guess what Shiro would want to know that could be more interesting or important than what they were currently talking about.

"Go ahead," he invited, hoping to get Shiro's questions out of the way so he could return to the mysterious five years in Keith's life that they hadn't spoken of yet. Or the last two weeks.

"How long have you and Keith been friends?" Shiro asked, a strange place to start. Lance looked down at Keith, at the hand he was still holding. He couldn't help but smile at him.

"I don't know that we are friends," he answered. "I know it looks like I was lying, but I really did just meet him in person yesterday. Before that, it was just the texts that you already have. We've been in the same class since the beginning of the month, but we never talked to each other. I can't even remember seeing him in there, but I wasn't paying attention."

Shiro looked sadly bemused at Lance's confession. "Yesterday?" Like that couldn't possibly be the truth, even though Lance now had no reason to lie.

"Yeah," Lance insisted, getting a little defensive about saying this all the time. "We don't know each other. The whole point of the assignment we were partnered on was to do an interview and write a biography, but you saw how well that was going."

The light went out of Shiro's eyes a little. "Keith doesn't open up easily or trust anyone. He had to become that way to protect himself. It's nothing against you."

"I know that," Lance allowed, running a gentle hand through Keith's hair.

"Which means you should also be able to see why I'm having a hard time believing you. Not that I think you aren't telling the truth, but I've never seen Keith like this with anyone else."

"Like what?" Lance asked, thinking he might know what Shiro was talking about, but he wanted it confirmed out loud. Especially since it seemed as though everyone was getting confused as to what sort of relationship Lance and Keith had. Lance was even a little confused himself about it at this point.

"Just look," Shiro gestured toward Keith, how his body gravitated toward Lance even in sleep, how he held on to him tightly. "There's a lot of trust here for just knowing each other for a day. You must be very special."

"He's just very sick," Lance protested, unable to speculate in this direction. Keith was sick and no one had noticed except Lance. No one had cared except Lance. No one had been there for him but Lance. That didn't make Lance special – it made all the people who should have been there for Keith horrible failures. "I did what anyone would have done."

"But what did you do exactly?" Shiro asked suddenly, as if he'd been looking for the right opening for it this whole time. "How did Keith go from frustrated texts on your phone to your apartment in less than a day?" 

"It kind of surprised me too," Lance admitted for the first time. "I'd asked my teacher to let me interview someone else since it had been so hard to find Keith, but he was actually in class on Friday morning."

Shiro was staring intently at Lance, engrossed in the details, hungry to hear what had happened to Keith outside of his protection, when he hadn't been able to find him for some reason. The loyalty in his face made Lance embarrassed all over again about how he'd behaved upon meeting Keith for the first time. How he'd treated Keith like everyone else in his life, acting on assumptions rather than finding out the truth. It was disappointing to Lance that he'd done this so easily, that he'd let his anger take control of him.

"I was mad at him already since it seemed he wasn't taking the assignment very seriously," Lance told Shiro, finding it harder to admit this to him than to anyone else. "And then when I went back to his desk to talk to him and saw that he was sleeping – it just made it worse. I thought he'd been such a jerk." Lance felt a tear hit his hand. No. He wasn't crying about this again, was he? He wasn't even sure why he was crying anymore.

"I slammed my textbook on the desk by his head to shake him up," Lance pushed himself to admit it, feeling a tightness release in his chest as he said the words. He'd said it before, to Angelique, but it felt different telling Shiro. "It was awful; I hadn't even spoken to him yet, hadn't asked him once about why it was so hard to get a meeting together. I never gave him a chance to explain. I didn't know what he was doing or that he had a legitimate reason for ghosting me all the time; I just assumed the worst about him. That's why I totally deserved it when he woke up and gave me this." Lance slid his fingers over his cheek, for the first time turning his face so the bruise would be more visible instead of less.

"I wondered about that," Shiro admitted softly. "Half of Keith's fights start this way."

"We didn't fight," Lance denied. "I was going to; I almost hit him back, but then I looked at him and realized something was wrong. There was something in how he was standing, how he breathed. He didn't look ok, but I ruined our first in-person introduction and couldn't talk to him about it. He left, and I let him go. Later I had my friend look up his address, though. I didn't want to leave it where we had. I wanted to apologize and check on him. Make sure he was ok. I found him in bed with his clothes on, and he already had a pretty high fever then. He said he didn't have anyone he could call to come help him and . . .I just . . have you been to his apartment?"

"It's not his, but yes," Shiro answered. Lance stored that information for a future question.

"Then you see why I couldn't let him stay there alone. He wasn't sure about it, but I didn't give him much choice about coming with me. I thought it would be like when I nursed my roommates and a couple other people through the flu, but then the sun went down yesterday and I found out that Keith was worse than all of them. I want to help him, Shiro. I think you and I are the only ones who have ever really wanted to do that, but I don't know how. It's not fair." His throat closed on him again, making it impossible to continue talking. He wanted to lower his head and nuzzle into Keith. He wanted Shiro to turn away and not look at him while he did it.

Shiro's elegant robotic hand reached over Keith to curl around Lance's wrist, squeezing with soft, reassuring pressure. Lance marveled all over again at the precise control Shiro had over it. If he could do this with a prosthetic hand, what sort of amazing pilot had he been? 

"You are helping him," Shiro said, genuine and quiet. "And it seems as though he's actually going to let you. I can't tell you how special that is or what it means to me that you took the initiative to look after him, especially since I know how hard he works at being invisible most of the time. You saved his life." A pang of guilt hit Lance at the heartfelt compliment, knowing that he hadn't always made the best choices when it came to Keith. The room darkened, more than one kind of shadow filling it.

"You saved it first," Lance responded, trying to give something back to Shiro, who looked so broken across the bed, failure weighing him down in a visible way. He tried to smile at Lance's statement, but they had entered that place in the conversation again. The uncertainty. The painful thoughts of how their current circumstances could have been prevented if only they had, in their respective ways, done a little more a little sooner. For Lance these thoughts were present but useless – he hadn't even known Keith two days ago. For Shiro, this regret cut deeply.

"I wish I could," Shiro murmured, and Lance found it strange how he knew exactly what he meant even at the same time he had no idea at all.

"I don't understand," Lance wondered out loud, overwhelmed with helplessness, an ache in his spirit that he wished would break open. Wasn't there something? Anything that could help? Something they could do?

Shiro wilted, looking at Keith, and Lance knew they were both thinking about the sentence waiting for him. How it didn't matter what either of them felt about Keith. His future depended on whatever the jury had decided was the truth. And from what Lance had noticed about Keith and how others perceived him, he couldn't help but succumb to dread.

"Shiro, what's going to happen to him?" Lance asked, wanting Shiro to reassure him, wishing that he would tell him the whole story, explain how it had been just another misunderstanding, that Keith had not killed anyone, that it had been horribly exaggerated and surely the jury would know that. Lance watched Shiro's soft black eyes shift to mirror Lance's own worries and doubts and knew that they were both powerless to stop what was coming for Keith. There was nothing either of them could do this time to save him. It was too late.

Lance couldn't tell if Shiro had been about to answer him, if he were going to make any attempt at a guess as to what waited for Keith outside this hospital room, but their discussion paused naturally as Keith stirred between them. His hand clenched in Lance's, then pulled away completely as he shifted on the bed, coming back to consciousness. When his eyes opened, both Lance and Shiro stood quiet and ready. Because it wasn't Monday yet, so Lance was going to do anything Keith needed to feel safe and comfortable. He knew Shiro felt the same. One thing at a time.

"Welcome back, Lobito," Lance greeted him, drawing his attention, unable to tolerate the silence. He forced a smile, wanting to protect Keith from stress for as long as possible.

Keith's eyes dragged up to Lance's, and Lance was relieved to see that though they were clouded by the fever and medication, there was still recognition present; Keith knew where he was and who Lance was. Always a good start. Keith made a weak attempt to sit up, but Lance knew the cocktail he was getting through the IV would make it very difficult for him to move without help. He probably felt as though he had no muscle tone at all.

"Hold still," Lance advised him, instead reaching for the automated controls on the hospital bed. He remembered Angelique telling him not to touch anything, but felt he'd be safe raising the bed a little so Keith could recline. "I've been wanting to play with these buttons for hours now, and I'm not missing my chance. Just sit tight."

"Lance?" Keith said his name questioningly, and Lance knew that even though Keith remembered him, there were other details he was blurry on. He was requesting some orientation. How long had he been asleep? What had he missed? "You're still here?"

"I'm not going to leave without you," Lance scolded him gently. "I promised you, didn't I?" Some fear relaxed from Keith's face, replaced by something powerful that Lance couldn't make out. It made him want to put his hand against Keith's cheek. He might have if they had been here alone.

"How are you feeling, Keith?" Shiro asked, which made Keith turn his head toward him, reminding Lance that not only were they not alone, he was actually more of a third wheel now. He should probably offer to let them have some privacy, even though he didn't want to.

"Shiro," Keith said the name in surprise and reverence. His large eyes teared up immediately and he redoubled his efforts to sit straight, to lift himself away from the pillow, a cadet suddenly finding himself in the presence of a much-respected commanding officer. Lance took pity and bent down, sliding his arm behind Keith's back and taking the elbow closest to him, sensing that any caution against unnecessary movement would go unheeded. While Lance helped Keith, Shiro carefully perched on the edge of the bed, opening his arms. Lance pushed Keith right into them, letting go so Shiro could encase Keith in an embrace he'd obviously been saving for that entire year of separation.

"I'm sorry, Keith," Shiro apologized, the weight of their lost year heavy in the words, clinging to Keith as though afraid he could somehow run away from him before he could finish all he wanted to say. "I should have told you. I should have told you first."

"Shiro?" Keith repeated his name, but this time in puzzlement, making Lance realize that neither of them had any idea what Shiro was talking about. Shiro reluctantly released Keith so they could speak face to face, easing him back against the raised bed, but he kept their left hands clasped, resting in Keith's lap.

"I've been looking everywhere for you," Shiro said, shaking the hand he held slightly, partially reproachful. Lance stood up straight, folding his arms across his ribs, shifting into invisibility in the background to just watch. So Keith had been hiding from Shiro after all.

"Why?" Keith asked, so innocent and yet with so much apathy that Lance had a hard time not touching his shoulder. How could he ask that? How could he look at Shiro's face, the devoted expression on it, and not know that Shiro loved him? Then again, the way his life had been, why would he recognize it? How would he even know what it looked like?

"Why?" Shiro repeated, incredulous and exasperated. "Because you vanished without a trace, Keith! You wouldn't take my calls. Kasey said that you didn't want me to know where you were. No one would give me any information. You just . . ," he cut himself off, collecting his emotions and wrapping them under tight control. This situation was so delicate. He softened his voice. "I was so worried about you."

Keith's heart skipped, the tiniest little hop on the monitor. It wasn't enough to trigger any system alarm, but Lance saw it out of the corner of his eye. It suddenly turned the conversation into a different kind of delicate. The heartrate steadied immediately, but Lance was now on high alert, watching and listening.

"I'm sorry," Keith murmured, eyes lowered to Lance's quilt, his free hand beginning to pluck at it in discomfort. His apology sounded cold to Lance, robotic, the apology of a boy who had been forced to say he was sorry for everything. Who had to apologize for simply existing. Who didn't even register that he was saying anything since it had become such an automatic response. Lance hugged himself tighter to keep himself from going to Keith, from shielding him against Shiro. This conversation was so important, though it was difficult to witness.

"No, Keith, don't," Shiro protested. "There's nothing you need to be sorry for. If you thought you couldn't come to me for help then that's _my_ fault, not yours."

"What?" Keith said, confused and lost, finding it difficult to put his thoughts into words. "I thought you didn't want me to. . You asked to be. . ."

Lance watched Keith's heartrate start to climb, not drastically, but it was definitely speeding up. Keith was starting to tremble a little. Should he stop their discussion? Make them wait until Keith was more stable? Nothing was dangerous yet, but if they kept going, he wasn't sure what it would do. He seemed to be the only one noticing any difference in the stats on the monitor. They were too caught up in what they were saying.

"I know. I did," Shiro confirmed. "I did ask to be transferred. And I should have told you why but I was afraid of what might happen if it didn't work out. I didn't want you to be disappointed, but I didn't think that you'd run away before I could talk to you about it. Didn't think it would take so long to track you down to explain or that I'd find you like this. It was a mistake; I know that now. I wish I could go back and do it over."

"Me too," Keith offered, lifting his face for just a few seconds before dropping his head again. Lance tried to gauge his breathing by sound from where he stood at the bedside but found it impossible. "Shiro? What?"

Lance relocated his focus to Shiro, who also had his head bowed. He could tell that he was trying so hard not to cry, that he didn't want Keith to see him break. He wanted to be strong for him, especially right now, but he was struggling.

"Shiro, I'm sorry," Keith apologized again, bending close to Shiro, fretting over him in distress. "What did I do?"

Shiro closed his eyes momentarily, shaking his head, and Lance recognized the movement. He'd felt the same. You didn't do anything, Keith, he wanted to say, but remembered that he was on the outside of this talk. But it made him so sad that Keith constantly assumed he had done something wrong, that everything was always his fault.

"You brought something back to me that I thought I'd lost," Shiro explained, calmly, elegantly, his voice much stronger than his posture, admiringly turning the question into something positive, subliminally showing Keith that he could be responsible for doing good, that he wouldn't always be disciplined or punished for his actions. "You showed me I didn't need a uniform or my plane to do something useful. That I didn't even need both hands to make a difference. You gave me purpose."

Keith's breath caught, and his shoulders tightened. This obviously was nothing like the answer he'd been expecting, though Lance guessed it was something he wanted to hear. Lance's eyes went to the monitor as the numbers on it changed color, and he sighed. He may have wanted to hear it, but Shiro's words were overpowering Keith. It was time to intervene.

"Hey, sorry," Lance interjected, taking a step closer to the bed, melting a little inside when both heads turned to look at him, surprised to notice that he was still there. He knew they'd both forgotten about him, and he wished he could have left it that way. "I really hate to interrupt, but I think we should take a break here and talk about something else."

Shiro's head tilted, not understanding, and not appreciating being stopped now that he was finally able to talk to Keith, so Lance jerked his chin toward the monitor. "Unless you want a whole team of nurses coming in?" Lance finished, not meaning to make the statement sound as threatening as it came out. Shiro also checked the monitor, beginning to nod slowly.

"You're right," Shiro acknowledged, though Keith didn't seem ready at all to change the subject. Now that he knew there was something Shiro had wanted to explain to him, that he'd misunderstood the situation that had caused him to distance himself from the person he loved most, now he wanted to know. Now he wanted Shiro to tell him everything. His system couldn't handle the emotional strain of it yet, but that didn't make any difference to him.

"But," Keith stuttered, returning his focus to Shiro, breathing fast. "Shiro."

"Keith, please," Lance entreated, finally giving in and putting a hand on his shoulder. "You're asking a lot from your body right now. It's trying to recover, and you're getting all worked up. I think we should talk about something that isn't so emotional for you; I want you to calm down a little. Then we can try again."

"I am calm," Keith insisted, holding tight to Shiro as if he'd been the one who had run away, refusing to look at Lance, his shoulder held tight and stiff under Lance's fingers. "I just need to know why."

Lance drew closer, leaving his hand on Keith's shoulder and placing his other one over Keith's chest, not sure if he were trying to support him or restrain him. Keith didn't shrug him off, but Lance could feel that he wanted to.

"This isn't how I wanted to tell you," Shiro said, backing down. "Not here. Not like this. Let's wait like Lance says. We're together now; we have time to do it right."

"But . . . No," Keith said, becoming more frantic despite their entreaties for him to relax. "We don't have time. They're going to . . . He's dead, Shiro."

Keith's statistics had risen enough that Lance heard the alarm go off. The sound came from right outside the door instead of from the machine. It was wired that way to make it more noticeable from the busy emergency room hallway. Lance started a stopwatch in his mind, tracking how long it took for the personnel outside to respond, conflicted that he wanted them to wait long enough for Keith to possibly say more and wanting them to hurry before Keith got any worse.

"I know," Shiro placated, also putting a hand on Keith's chest right next to Lance's. "Officer Guist came to my place looking for you, and he told me some of what was going on. We're going to figure it out, though, Keith. I'm going to help you; we're going to postpone, and appeal if we have to. I'll work on the arrangements tonight. You don't have to worry."

"Breathe, Keith," Lance reminded him, feeling helpless and morbidly curious. The way Keith said it. He's dead. It made it sound like he was surprised about it. That he hadn't even been there when it happened. But if that were true, how come he'd confessed to the murder? Or maybe Pidge was wrong? But Pidge was never wrong.

The nurse arrived then, bustling into the room with purposeful calm, and Lance watched her with approval. Not a shabby response time at all. He didn't know her. She wore periwinkle scrubs under her lab coat; her brownish-blonde hair held in a sloppy twist by an enormous hair clip. Her nametag read Abbie Murtaugh, RN, and Lance guessed her to be in her late twenties – a little younger than Shiro.

"Hello," she greeted them all, but zeroed in quickly on Keith. Lance let go of him to move out of the way, but Shiro stayed where he was. Her first job was to silence the alarm on the monitor, letting the rest of the floor know that someone was here in the room, handling things. "Everything all right in here?"

"Yes," Keith muttered, the least qualified to give the answer but apparently the only one capable of speech. Lance almost smiled in exasperation because Keith never could admit that anything was wrong with him. Abbie studied him, reading the room a little more carefully now that she'd seen her patient was conscious and responding. She checked the output from the EKG, folding up the long line of paper that was slowly gathering in a pile on the floor, tucking it onto a hidden shelf on the cart under the machine. Then she went through Keith's stats, took his temperature, checked the volume and drip rate of the IV bag. Meanwhile, as they were all forced to be silent by her presence, Keith's heartrate leveled out again, though his face was hard and impatient. She softened the lighting in the room, turning off the main lights and pulling the cord that would switch on the ones directly behind Keith's head on the wall, dimming it down significantly. So she was nightshift, Lance realized. Night shift nurses always tried to replicate the conditions outside. He checked his phone, surprised to see it was after eight pm. Also surprised to see a number of politely inquisitive texts from Hunk and Pidge. He should probably call them soon to give them some kind of update.

"How are you doing?" Abbie asked Keith, finally running out of things to look at or change. "Warm enough? That's a lovely blanket you have there; did your mom make it?"

Keith shook his head, shy. "I think his mom did," he answered her, gesturing toward Lance. Abbie glanced at Lance quickly, the tiniest furrow of confusion creasing between her eyes. She moved on quickly.

"Well, it's beautiful, but I can get you another one if you're cold. Or anything else you need?"

"I'm all right," Keith responded, unable to look at her or anyone.

"Just press the call light if that changes," Abbie invited, showing him where it was on the bed. She looked to be ready to leave. "I'm right outside."

"Can you give us an update?" Shiro asked, coming to life suddenly as he realized that she was done and on her way out, that she'd checked everything but was not going to offer up a report. She looked at him, then at Lance, considering.

"We're running a test," she told him, as if they didn't already know that. "And we're waiting for the doctor to determine the outcome of the lab work."

"The tests came back?" Lance asked, pouncing on that detail. The key to knowing for sure what happened to Keith and what they could do about it. "What's the diagnosis? Anemia?" Now Abbie was really studying him as he stood there in his jeans and dark blue, long-sleeved Tshirt, covered in awkward. And he knew that she would not be giving him any information.

"The doctor will go over it with you," she promised, moving toward the door.

"Which one?" Lance pressed, hoping that they weren't going to wait until Dr. Delacroix returned at eight in the morning. That was almost twelve hours from now. "Dr. Delacroix?"

"No, I think the one who ordered the bloodwork," Abbie answered. "He's on another floor right now, but he's been paged and he'll probably be down soon. Try to lie still," she said in parting to Keith.

Abbie slipped quickly from the room then as Lance processed that. The labs were finished, and they were waiting for Coran to come talk to them about it. But Coran's actual job was on the third floor; he specialized in internal medicine. Keith wasn't officially his patient, which meant that no matter who had ordered the blood work, they were going to have to get permission from Angelique for any kind of treatment. Which could take a while.

Lance looked back from the door toward Shiro and Keith, who were staring wordlessly at each other. He sensed that if they started talking again, it would just escalate as before. And yet, it felt so important that they talk to each other, that all the secrets come out. But it wasn't good for Keith to get too excited about it. And it definitely wasn't good for Keith not to know.

"Are you ok?" Shiro uttered the first question, hesitantly. Keith shrugged. Shiro's expression tightened, used to these non-answers but not liking it. "Are you in pain?" He tried again, getting more specific.

"Not anymore," Keith responded, quietly, speaking only of the physical kind. He turned to Lance. "What are they giving me?"

"A saline fluid solution, pain medication, and an antiarrhythmic drug to keep your heart rate steady," Lance answered readily, glad to still be part of the conversation, however awkward it may be.

"Lance is really good at this," Keith told Shiro, who smiled. The darkened lights of the room had changed the entire atmosphere. They'd almost plunged headfirst into that black hole, but Keith's heart had stopped them. And now it seemed no one knew what to say, what to talk about, what would be safe. "He's been taking care of me."

"I'm glad you found a good friend, Keith," Shiro responded. "Hold on to him."

"Hey," Lance broke in as another uneasy silence fell, especially since it revolved around him and his friendship with Keith that was still kind of undetermined. "Is it ok if we take a minute now and call your other friends?" Keith looked confused. "Hunk and Pidge," Lance reminded him, letting him know that they were all his friends now. If that's what he wanted. "They're pretty worried. I bet they would like to know that you're all right."

Keith checked silently with Shiro about it, studying him, watching him for any sign that he could get away with asking more questions. Lance would have loved nothing more than to bring it all out in the open, but he thought it would be better to wait until after Dr. Coran had come in, after they'd learned more about what was going on with Keith.

"Let's call them," Lance urged. "Then you and Shiro can try to talk more about . . that other stuff. I can leave; you can have some privacy. Just promise me you'll take it easy, ok?"

"You don't have to leave," Keith said, very quickly, his face flushing. "Unless you need to," he amended carefully. "Just because I'm stuck here doesn't mean you have to be."

"I'll stay as long as you want me," Lance promised. "I'd like to hear what Dr. Coran found out, and . . . well, anything else you'd like to tell me." He knew that wasn't not a subtle hint, but it was out in the open now.

"I guess," Keith said, his eyes slipping down again. "You have a right to know."

"Not necessarily," Lance said, absolving Keith from any responsibility he might feel for telling him anything. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious, but you don't owe me anything. It's completely up to you."

Many emotions crossed Keith's face. Gratitude, pain, unease, and fear. Without seeming to realize it, he reached over to Lance, tentatively taking hold of the hem of his shirt. Lance felt warm relief radiate from Keith's fingers.

"Ok," Keith acquiesced. "Call them."

**Author's Note: Aww, Keith, you just . . you poor sweet thing. How's it going? Clear some things up for you? Not quite? Don't worry – we're getting there. Coran's coming with a proper diagnosis. Shiro has some things he needs to say. And I think maybe Keith needs to come clean about what really happened with the trial. How are you? Still with me? (Sorry for the delay – there will likely be another as we enter the chaos that is the holiday season. I admit, this chapter tripped me up with all the slow nuance I needed in it. I hope this chapter broke into new territory enough that it can flow a little smoother now . . at least in the writing.) Thanks for your continued patience. I promise not to abandon this work!**

**By the way? Is there a way I can give you guys some kind of update? I don't want to post a chapter that isn't a chapter just to say, hey, I'm going to be late with the chapter. I guess if you want, you can always send me a message if you like. I may write slow, but I respond to messages decently fast.**

**OH! One more bit of housekeeping. I've put the link to the Audiobook version of this story on my profile. It's only available on Google Drive right now as I'm still working on it. I've only recorded through Chapter Nine so far, but I'm hoping to get it caught up. Maybe to the point where I can release a chapter with its recorded counterpart at the same time. Let me know if you like it!**


	14. Infusion

**Author's Note: Happy Holidays everyone! I hope they were lovely. I spent most of mine without an Internet connection, but we're back up and running now and I think things are going to get interesting for you. Hope you enjoy!**

**Chapter Fourteen: Infusion**

"Lance! Oh, good. Great. Oh man, it's good to hear your voice. Dude," Hunk went on and on, exhaling his relief in near non-sensical phrases. Lance smiled automatically, familiar with how Hunk sounded when he was worried. He looked to Shiro and Keith the same way he would have looked to Pidge if she'd been present, forgetting that they didn't know Hunk the way he did. They both wore neutral expressions, not sure if Hunk's rambling was supposed to be funny or concerning.

"Everyone's fine, Hunk," Lance told him first thing, knowing that would be the most important piece of information exchanged in this entire call. He knew that's what he would want to know before anything else. The last time Hunk and Pidge had seen Keith, he'd been strapped to an oxygen tank and carried out of the room with Lance sprinting after him. "I've got you on speaker with Keith and Shiro. We wanted to check in."

"Good thing you called," Pidge sighed coolly. "Hunk's out of counter space."

Now Keith definitely looked confused. Shiro more so. Lance decided to ask a question he already knew the answer to for their benefit. "Stress baking, huh, Hunk?"

"What? Me? No. Just trying some new recipes," Hunk denied, almost drowned out by a squawk from Pidge.

"Hunk, there's like fourteen different loaves of bread here. That's what? Seven times your weekly average?"

"It means he was worried about you," Lance whispered to Keith, translating Hunk's behavior into the emotion that had driven it, wanting him to understand. "You're making bread?" He returned to Hunk on the phone. "Not cookies?" It felt peaceful and normal talking to his friends, especially since he didn't have to give them horrible news. Well, not yet. A shiver of dread rippled through him, tarnishing the moment, as he remembered the court date for Keith and what might happen there. He repressed it with a vengeance. That was more than a day away and Shiro had mentioned that he was going to try and postpone it. Also, Keith might still be in the hospital by then. Or back with Shiro. Either way, he'd be out of Lance's apartment. Maybe out of his life. What happened to Keith at court might not be something Lance even had to think about depending on what Keith wanted. And he should really start thinking about whether Keith would want more interaction with Lance outside this particular hospital experience. It could be that Keith would want to forget all of this – Lance included.

"Oh, we got cookies," Pidge drawled. "You don't have a table, but we've got cookies. We've got an entire Chocolate Chip Mountain; it's impressive."

"Ok, so you want to tell them what _you've_ been doing?" Hunk demanded, and Lance could picture him standing there in the kitchen, his silly, pink, lace-fringed apron covering his clothes, oven-mittened hands on his hips, leaning over Pidge with an expression of feigned offence.

"Sure," Pidge agreed, way too quick and casual. "I've been borrowing sugar and flour from every apartment in the building in exchange for dozens of cookies, that's what. I gave hundreds away already and ate what I could to try and excavate your table out from under this thing, Lance, but I'm not making a dent here."

"Amateur," Lance teased her, though he knew perfectly well the sort of production that Hunk was capable of in a stress-induced baking frenzy, and Lance could only eat about two of Hunk's massive, gooey cookies in one sitting. They were sweet, sugary perfection, but more than two and he could actually feel his pancreas begging for mercy.

"Pidge found the Zelda game," Hunk tattled on her, breaking up the conversation about the impromptu bakery he'd set up in the apartment. "She's been playing it nonstop." Lance felt his smile slip a little listening to that, surprised that Pidge had been worried too. After their harsh discussion about Keith, he'd thought she wouldn't really care what happened to him. That she'd gone to the trouble of locating where he'd hidden the game meant that this was bothering her a lot.

"Anyway," Pidge huffed, changing the subject now that her coping strategies were being put on display. She didn't like to be caught in her insecurities. "How are you guys? What's going on over there?"

"Yeah, Keith, buddy, you ok?" Hunk echoed, growing serious again. "Is he ok, Lance?"

Lance looked to Keith, giving him first chance to answer before he did any talking for him. Hunk asked you before me, he thought, nodding at him reassuringly and holding the phone closer to him so he would be heard on the other end. But Keith looked too overwhelmed to speak, clinging to Lance's hem, mouth tight, touched in a way he probably couldn't explain that people he barely knew were so invested in his wellbeing.

"He's doing better," Lance eventually answered, feeling Keith's hand clench on his shirt. He sat down on the edge of the bed again, keeping the phone positioned between them. "The ER staff was able to get his heart rate down and his blood pressure up. I think he's pretty comfortable at the moment?" He said the last as a question, wanting Keith to confirm. He nodded while Shiro rested a companionable hand on his head. "He's definitely getting better pain medication than I've got at the apartment."

"So are they going to let you come home soon? You need a ride?" Hunk offered hopefully.

"Not yet, Hunk, thanks though. They're doing some tests, so Keith's going to stay at least until tomorrow sometime. Probably longer depending on how it goes."

Keith looked up at him as he spoke. Apparently, the idea of an extended hospital stay was news to him. Lance had forgotten that many of these discussions had happened after Keith had fallen asleep, and he could see how worried Keith was about staying the night here, possibly several.

"And you're staying with him?" Pidge asked, and Lance hoped that he was the only one to hear the slight edge in her tone. The sharpness that told Lance that she wasn't all that happy thinking of them alone together for the night.

"I'm staying," Lance confirmed, a matching edge meant only for her. She made a frustrated little huffing noise, moving away from the phone on her side. Yeah, but what else could he do? Triage was no place to spend the night alone. And he'd made a decision. "Until Keith gets tired of me and tells me to get lost."

Keith's eyes widened in disbelief, shaking his head in silent denial that he'd ever do anything like that, and Lance relaxed a little into the comfort of seeing that Keith did want him to stay.

"Tough break," Hunk empathized. "But if that's the case, you need me to bring you anything?"

Lance almost said no without thinking; he didn't want to put his roommate out any more than he already had. He'd pushed the limits of all politeness by bringing Keith home with him without even checking with Hunk first. Then Hunk had helped him manually bring Keith's fever down with snow in the middle of the night, had carried Keith to the couch, made a smoothie for him, and just been so generous and sweet about it that Lance absolutely did not want to ask him for anything else. It would take him forever to return the favors he'd already received, and it actually made it worse that Hunk would not require him to even try.

But then Lance noticed his phone battery, how low it was already. It wouldn't last the entire night at this rate. He wouldn't worry about it, but tomorrow was Sunday. He couldn't be without a phone on Sunday morning, no matter where he was.

"My phone charger?" Lance timidly requested. "But I can come get it."

"That's already in your bag, man," Hunk returned. "Guess you haven't had a chance to look in there yet."

"You packed my phone charger?" Lance asked, surprised and moved at Hunk's never-ending thoughtfulness. "What else is in there?" When had he had the time to put anything in there?

"I can't really remember; I just started grabbing stuff. You can go through it when you get bored tonight. Things were happening pretty fast, but I figured you could be gone a while, so I started packing. It was the only thing I could think of that might actually be useful while you were being a superhero and keeping Keith alive."

"Come on, Hunk," Lance dismissed, feeling awkward about it. He was a far cry from being a hero. He hadn't even been thinking about what he was doing, kneeling next to Keith in his apartment. He'd just reacted to the situation.

"Come on, nothing! I've never seen you be all medical drama serious like that. It was pretty cool."

"You were crying, Hunk," Lance pointed out flatly, wanting to remind him that it had also been extremely scary. Medical dramas were one thing - two-dimensional, well-scripted, not dangerous at all. What had happened earlier with Keith had been all too real and terrifying.

"Well, sure, but things can be cool and awful at the same time, you know. Oh, hey, is your back all right? Ten points for the catch, but the fall looked like it hurt."

"You fell?" Keith murmured, looking to Lance questioningly. This was the first he'd heard about this too. He hadn't been conscious when Lance caught him, had no idea he'd crashed into Lance, that he'd toppled them both to the floor. "What does he mean? Your back?" He started tugging at Lance's shirt, trying to twist him with one hand to see what Hunk was talking about.

"It's bruised a little, no big deal," Lance allowed, resting his free hand over Keith's to let him know there was nothing to worry about there, holding him still. He didn't want him to see his back, didn't want him to blame himself for anything. "You'll never guess who treated us, though."

"Dr. Angelique Delacroix – Our Lady of the Voodoo," Pidge responded without a moment's hesitation, her need to be right trumping whatever frustration she might be trying to hang on to about Lance and his choices. Lance slumped a little. While he was glad she was talking again, she had sort of stolen his thunder there. Why'd she always have to take the fun out of everything with her weird Internet search skills? "Did she remember you?"

"She did, actually," Lance admitted. "Not sure that's a good thing, but she did a great job getting Keith stable again." And me, he added in his head.

"She didn't do anything; you did," Keith interrupted, voice shockingly clear and almost hostile.

"Easy, Keith," Lance calmed, wondering where the energy had come from all of a sudden. "Believe me; she did a lot for both of us."

"No, seriously," Keith continued, unexpectedly passionate. "What'd she do? You're the one who did the IV and figured out that whole Kura . . .Kuramo-whatever synchronization thing. She just stood around and asked a bunch of questions." Lance couldn't disagree with that. Looking at it from Keith's perspective, it probably did look like she hadn't been very involved in the actual treatment. Keith hadn't heard what she'd said in the hall, and no one had been with them in Dr. Delacroix's office. No one knew the full extent of what she'd done to help Lance or Keith.

"What'd he just say?" Pidge broke in, intrigued and vaguely impressed. "Keith, are you talking about the Kuramoto model?" Great. Now Lance was going to have to explain what he'd tried to do and have Pidge laugh at him for the next six months. On the other hand, if he had to choose between getting teased for the synchronization experiment or have to hear her speculations on his love life, he guessed he'd pick the teasing. "Why did that come up? How do you even know about it?"

"I don't; Lance used it," Keith deflected.

"Lance?" Pidge said his name as a demand; she wanted some information.

"We just did a little experiment while we waited for the medication to work," Lance sighed, wondering how to say it that would sound the least stupid. "We tried to synch our heart rates with a Josephson junction and some oscillation."

"Did it work?" Pidge sounded so interested now, the opposite of how he'd expected her to react.

"Yeah, it did," Keith answered for him, apparently unable to talk about himself but more than ready to answer for Lance. He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

"Almost instantly," Shiro added.

"The medication worked," Lance protested, but it seemed no one was listening to him anymore. Apparently, everyone except Lance had forgotten there had even been medication, that he'd risked his EMT status on making sure Keith got it quickly.

"That was really clever, Lance," Pidge complimented, tossing Lance with one casual sentence into his own personal version of the Twilight Zone. "Don't forget what you did; I'm going to want to see if we can duplicate the experiment when you get home."

"No," Lance protested, off balance, never anticipating this sort of response to what he'd tried to do. "We can't duplicate that." That would mean one of their heartbeats would have to be dangerously high. He didn't know how to recreate something like that and he probably would refuse if he did.

"I have some ideas," Pidge rebutted, nonchalant. "I'll see if there's any literature out there already first, though."

"Knock yourself out," Lance relented, giving in. There was no stopping her now anyway.

"Hey Lance," Hunk broke in. "You said Shiro was there with you?"

"You're letting everyone call you Shiro now?" Keith whispered under his breath. Lance hadn't thought about that. Shiro had used his full name when he'd introduced himself earlier, both to Lance and to Dr. Delacroix, and Officer Guist called him Takashi. Keith's question indicated that he might have been the only one to use the nickname until now. But honestly, for Lance, Hunk and Pidge, they couldn't really help it. They'd listened to Keith call that name for hours.

"I'm here," Shiro raised his voice so Hunk could hear it over the phone, but then toned it down again just for Keith. "They're your friends; I don't mind."

"Oh, cool, hi there," Hunk began rambling again, an indication of his discomfort. "Glad you and Keith found each other, but, um, I was wondering." No, oh no, please don't ask Hunk, Lance mentally pleaded, considering hanging up the phone before Hunk could say anything about the strange manner in which Shiro arrived at the apartment. Don't. Don't. Don't. "What was up with the police officer?"

Leave it to Hunk. Damn it. Lance heard Pidge make a weird hissing sound. Keith and Shiro traded heavy glances. Lance wasn't sure which side to defend. Keith's right to privacy, or Hunk's innocent curiosity.

It turned out, he didn't have to choose.

"We'll have to talk about all that later," Lance delayed as he heard Coran's Australian strine outside Keith's door, never more grateful to be interrupted than right this second. Coran sounded as though he were also talking to someone on the phone, his voice growing louder as he came closer. "Dr. Coran is here to go over the lab work with us."

"Keep us updated?" Hunk requested, disappointed. Lance felt bad about that, but not enough. He didn't want to have that discussion with Hunk over the phone. He wanted to be able to sit with him and explain things gently. If anything needed to be explained at all. Maybe Pidge would do it for him. No, unlikely. Hunk had probably speculated about it with her already, and if she hadn't broken out the truth yet then she likely wouldn't ever. She was going to make Lance do it. Because that's what he deserved for bringing home felons, wasn't it?

"I will. Thanks for all your help. We'll talk soon," Lance repeated, knowing that he'd never be able to thank them enough. Never be able to make Pidge understand. Never be the same after all this, really. But he wasn't going to dwell on it now. Coran was here.

"Lie back, Keith," Lance instructed, hanging up and watching Keith once again trying to sit straighter. "It's ok; you don't have to move." He understood that Keith felt the need to not show weakness to people he didn't know well, particularly people with authority, but this was Coran, someone who had a sheaf of papers in his hand documenting all of Keith's current weaknesses already.

Coran walked into the room as if it were empty. He had his eyes on the floor; his mustache twitching as he pursed his lips around what Lance could only assume were twenty arguments that he couldn't find a place to slip in through the tirade coming from the phone in his hand. Lance couldn't hear any words yet, but he recognized Angelique's voice. He wondered who had called who. What sort of argument they were having. It didn't make sense for them to have anything to argue about.

"I'm not encouraging anything," Coran darted in when Angelique paused to take a breath, tucking the papers under his arm so he could hold the phone and close the door behind him at the same time. "He came to me. I don't see any problem with it."

"Well you didn't see him today," Angelique snapped, words extremely clear now that Coran had come inside, her tone exasperated from the receiver, and Lance abruptly realized that they were arguing about him. "He was a shivering, emotional wreck." Perfect. Lance fidgeted on the bed, turning his face away from Keith.

"I'm looking at him right now," Coran retorted, obviously annoyed, standing there staring unambiguously at Lance, clutching his paperwork again in his hand and tucking his fist against his hip. Lance felt Keith's and Shiro's eyes on him suddenly, adding to the count of people staring at him, making it almost unbearable. Of all the things they could be talking about, they'd decided on him? When they should have been discussing treatment plans for Keith. Lance wasn't sure if he felt angry, frightened, or embarrassed.

"You're going to ruin him," Angelique accused mercilessly, her voice sharp and loud in the room. Lance dug his fingers into the fabric of his jeans along his thighs. How long were they going to keep talking about him? Couldn't Coran see this was a conversation he should have kept out in the hallway? "He's going too fast."

"So you've said," Coran replied, coldly, unaware of the awkward atmosphere he was drowning the room in. Lance felt Shiro's robotic hand on his shoulder and unconsciously leaned into it. "Multiple times. If you feel that way, you should take it up with him yourself instead of watching him from the shadows like a vulture. This has nothing to do with my reason for calling. If you want to continue yelling at me, it'll have to be when I'm not standing in a patient room where everyone can hear you, yeah?" Yes, please, continue somewhere else. No one needed to hear any of that.

"Why on earth would you be?" Angelique cut off quickly with a growl of anger. Lance felt his insides squirming as he listened to this. He respected them both; he didn't want them to fight, especially not about him. "You just walked right in, I suppose."

"My mistake, but I thought you'd be wrapping up soon after ten straight minutes of ranting."

It was Lance's turn to grip on to Keith for reassurance as Angelique sputtered, too angry for words, astonished by Coran's audacity. Shiro bent low to monitor him, but Lance just shook his head, not ready to answer anything yet. He felt as though he were responsible for starting a blood feud. Had Coran ever met Angelique in person? Did he know what he could be starting talking to her like that? Keith patted him rather clumsily, whispering a question that Lance couldn't decipher, but it showed him that he was probably being too dramatic. He tried to loosen his body; it was time to put a stop to this conversation.

Though he felt a little numb, he left Keith's bedside and attempted to take the papers from Coran as he continued sparring with Angelique. Coran jerked his fist up and away, harsher in this moment than Lance could ever remember him, but Lance should have known better. They were no longer being casual in his living room. The lab results were confidential until Keith said it was ok for Lance to see them. Coran might have relinquished them anyway, but apparently Angelique had already lit into him about that, so he was being far more strict than normal. But it did accomplish what Lance wanted; it seemed to remind Coran where he was and what he was there for.

"Look; you're in charge here, all right?" Coran said to Dr. Delacroix, slightly deflated. "I've emailed you the results and I'm certain that you're not going to withhold treatment just because of how I got them or who took the samples. Now will you call in the order or not?"

"Of course I will," Angelique huffed, her pride as a doctor being called into question. "Is Lance still there? Will you let me talk to him, please?"

Coran squinted at Lance, suspicious, an expression he'd never shown Lance before. What was going on today? Lance held his hand out, timidly, and Coran dropped his phone into it as if it were a dead cockroach.

"Dr. Delacroix?" Lance began, feeling like the only child of divorced parents.

"I'm sorry, Lance," Angelique said, her tone cooled in an instant. "I had no idea you were listening to that." Lance admired her ability to transition so quickly from one emotion to the next. He was churning with questions, anxiety, and something else he didn't even have a word for but it didn't feel good and it related to how hard and fast everyone's attention had magnetized over to him. He turned off the speaker to the phone, raising it to his ear and closing his eyes, trying to pull the conversation back to just the two of them. He wondered if he should step out into the hall.

"It's ok," he said, though it really wasn't. She shouldn't be sorry for him hearing what she was saying about him behind his back; she should be sorry for talking about him in secret at all. However, he didn't want to continue, so there was no choice but to let it go. At least until later. "What's the order for?"

"We're going to be giving your friend an iron infusion," she told him, confirming that part of Keith's problem was severe anemia. "But I don't want to start until midnight if possible. Do you think I can wait that long? Is he comfortable right now?"

"You're asking me?" Lance wondered aloud. She could be asking Keith, except for how Keith wouldn't tell her if he wasn't comfortable. And she obviously didn't want to have a productive conversation with Coran. Still, Lance felt pressured. Like this could be a trick question somehow.

"Obviously," Angelique answered smoothly. "You've been with him since the start of his symptoms, haven't you? Do you think I can wait until midnight?"

Lance thought about that. Midnight was still several hours away. And though Keith did seem stable and comfortable right now, Lance wasn't certain it was a good idea to push it too far on his heart, rely too much on the medication. The iron would be a more natural remedy and would help a lot more than the amiodarone that Keith was currently receiving through the IV, and the EKG had already been running for over an hour. Most EKG tests took less than fifteen minutes, though in this case, Dr. Delacroix was looking for abnormalities over time. The more data available, the easier it would be to see patterns. However, it would also take time to transition from the drugs and that would be a pattern to watch as well, to see how well Keith would do without the medication and with the mineral. 

"You probably could," Lance finally answered her, giving her the truth. "But I don't think there is any benefit in waiting anymore."

"Ok," Angelique gave in easily, making Lance even more suspicious that he'd just taken some sort of test. "I'll put in the order to start as soon as possible then. Please hand me back to Dundee over there so I can finish with him. See you in the morning."

Lance obediently passed the phone to Coran who stood with his arms folded, fuming while trying to make it look like he wasn't. He kept the speaker off, leaving Lance, Shiro, and Keith to look at each other in weird silence, listening to one side of the conversation, waiting for him to hang up.

"Thank you," Coran said, bitingly. "Yes, right now. I know. Of course I do! Probably more than . . . if you say so. I'm still going to let him decide and so should . . . because . . . fine. I will talk to him, ok? Ok!" Coran rammed the phone into his scrubs pocket so hard that Lance thought he might just tear through it.

"Infuriating woman," Coran muttered, shaking his head.

"What was all that about?" Shiro asked. "Is there a problem?"

"Nope, not a word to me or from me," Coran denied, plucking a pen from his breast pocket and shoving it at Keith. "Not until I get these forms properly signed. Sorry, young man," Coran softened, speaking just to Keith now. "I wasn't going to make you when I thought you'd be recovering at Lance's apartment, but now that you're here and I've got test results that require immediate treatment and future prescriptions, there's just nothing for it. It's the law. Understand?"

"What's he signing?" Shiro interjected, protective. He may not be Keith's official social worker anymore, but he was obviously still very much in business of acting on Keith's behalf.

"And who are you?" Coran demanded, still ruffled from talking with Angelique.

"Takashi Shirogane," Shiro answered readily, standing by Keith's side, straight and honestly intimidating. Though Coran didn't seem to be intimidated in the least. "I'm Keith's guardian."

"Lance?" Coran asked for confirmation, staring Shiro in the eye as if he could best him in any fight he may want to start. Maybe he really did used to wrestle crocodiles. Or maybe he lacked the social graces to notice that he kept verbally putting himself in danger. Lance couldn't tell; he'd never seen Coran so agitated before.

"It's ok, Dr. Coran," Lance said peacefully, emphasizing his mentor's title to make sure everyone in the room would give him the respect that he deserved. He didn't want anyone to dismiss his credibility just because Dr. Delacroix had been lecturing him. "Keith wants him to be here."

"I see. Well in that case, what I need signed is a document giving me and Dr. Delacroix clearance to diagnose and treat illness, a waiver holding the hospital not liable for anything unexpected that could potentially happen, a statement indicating that I have given you a copy of HIPAA law and hospital policy, which is right here by the way, and a privacy agreement where I am given permission to share information with other individuals as identified such as a primary care physician." As he spoke to Shiro, Coran handed Keith papers, pointing with amazing efficiency all the specific lines requiring Keith's signature or initials. "And this one is for your insurance," he finished, though Keith didn't seem to know what to do with it.

"I don't think I have insurance," Keith confessed. This statement drew all the remaining hostility out of Coran. Lance watched him gentle, saw compassion soften his jaw as if he'd just now remembered that Keith was barely a legal adult, that he didn't know what was going on or how to handle it.

"You should," Shiro offered helpfully. "I'll have to check with Kasey about it, but you should be covered by Medicaid until you're twenty-five. He would have gone over the paperwork with you in the exit interview; do you remember?"

Keith shook his head, closing up as if ashamed.

"Keith – did you have an exit interview?" Shiro pushed, attempting to be gentle though traces of impatience were creeping into the frown lines on his mouth. Keith shook his head again, the tiniest of movements. Shiro closed his eyes, pushing his palm to his forehead. Lance knew that Keith would take this gesture as anger directed at him, but Lance thought it looked more like Shiro were mad at himself again.

"Well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it then," Coran dismissed, taking back all the signed papers, including the blank one on insurance.

"Can you tell us what's going on?" Shiro requested, also quieter, not as threatening. Lance wanted to know as well now that the legal stuff was out of the way. Hopefully, there was nothing wrong with Keith that time and drugs couldn't resolve. "What are the results?"

"I can't tell you until Keith says it's ok," Coran answered. Dr. Delacroix must have really yelled at him. Not that Coran didn't adhere to policy; Lance followed him around the hospital enough to know that, but the way he said it indicated that he was being more tensely by-the-book than normal. Any other day, the fact that Shiro was in the room would be reason enough to think that Keith would be all right with him hearing the diagnosis. "Keith, would you like these two to step outside while I go over your test results with you?"

"No, they can stay," Keith gave permission, and Coran nodded. Because they had all known that in the first place.

"I thought so," Coran said, shifting the papers around until he found the ones he needed. He cleared his throat. "And your bloodwork confirms some other things that we thought as well. You did test positive for influenza B virus, and the CBC test came back with extremely low hemoglobin levels, a definitive symptom for anemia. It looks as though you're not getting enough iron into your blood, which makes you very tired, makes your heart have to work harder to get oxygen through your body, and it leaves your immune system weakened. The good news is that you tested negative for HIV, so the cause of your anemia is likely an abrupt change in diet and can be corrected easily without requiring you to take pills for the rest of your life. All that tells us how we got here," Coran lifted a hand, rotating his wrist to indicate the hospital room. "Now I'm going to tell you what we can do about getting you better and back home again."

"Ok," Keith accepted, his voice quiet. Lance usually felt a little bit of triumph when the lab work confirmed his hypotheses, but not this time. He usually didn't know the other patients. He didn't spend any time with them outside of the moments he came and went with Coran. They were just case files – little different than homework problems. It made such a difference when he could picture the suffering alongside the numbers on the chart. Now that he knew what 103.9 fevers looked like.

"Most of this will be taken care of by Dr. Delacroix, as she's the doctor who admitted you to the emergency room," Coran explained keeping his voice professional. "She's having an iron infusion brought in very soon that we're going to administer through your IV. It'll take about four hours. That'll kickstart the recovery, but you'll likely need to take an oral iron supplement for a while and change your diet to make sure you don't end up here again. As for the virus, there isn't a lot we can do but let it run its course and handle individual symptoms as they come. Do you have any questions about what I've just told you?"

"How long will I have to stay here?" Keith asked, holding the papers that Coran had passed him. The printouts of the results. A paper on anemia and what foods he should eat that contain high amounts of iron.

Three days, Lance wanted to answer. That was the standard for monitoring a patient like Keith to make sure his heart rate stayed within normal parameters, give him a chance to get over the virus while getting proper IV hydration. He was so certain about it that he almost opened his mouth to answer for Coran.

"That will be for Dr. Delacroix to decide," Coran said instead, surprisingly. "She'll be back in the morning to talk about that with you. Until then, you keep resting. Lance, do you need a ride home? I won't be finished until eleven or a little after, but it's a bad night to walk, so I can take you if you need me to."

"No, thanks, Coran, but I'm staying," Lance said again, wondering why everyone expected him to just leave Keith here.

"I'll see if I can have a cot brought in then," Coran accepted the answer, turning toward Shiro. "Should I tell them we need more than one?"

"No," Shiro answered, understanding quickly what Coran was saying. Keith jerked his head over to him, worried. "Unfortunately, I can't stay."

"You're leaving?" Keith asked, as though he might never see him again if he left his sight now. Shiro bent over Keith, covering his shoulders with his hands, squeezing him in reassurance.

"I wouldn't if I thought you'd be here alone," Shiro assured him. "But I have some calls to make; things to take care of right away. I need to talk to Kasey about the Medicaid thing, and probably talk to your lawyer. Do you have a lawyer?"

Keith side-eyed Lance nervously, but then gave up. There was no point in being secretive anymore. Not since the moment the police had showed up to the apartment looking for him. "Yeah," he answered. "The court appointed one for me, but I don't know her number. It's in my phone. Her name is . . . well, her last name is Krolia."

"That sounds familiar; I think our office has worked with her before. I can find her number," Shiro said thoughtfully. "But is there anything else? Do you have any paperwork? A file or something so I can get caught up on what's been going on?"

"Yeah, it's," Keith paused, his eyes flitting over to Lance again, looking embarrassed. "There's a file in my backpack. It has everything in it. My phone is in there too, but it's probably dead."

"That's ok. It doesn't matter, but where can I find the backpack? The apartment?" Shiro asked, efficiently, no judgment at all in his tone. He really was perfect for Keith. Lance wondered how many times Shiro had been put in this position before, scrambling to get Keith out of trouble. He also wondered why Keith kept making it necessary for Shiro to intervene for him. Then he had one last dark thought on how this could be the last time.

"All Keith's stuff is at my place," Lance answered for him, understanding at last why Keith had been so possessive and weird about Lance searching around in his backpack. He hadn't wanted Lance to see the file about the court case. Didn't want Lance to know he was on trial for murder. "The backpack is in my room. Hunk can find it for you. I'll let him know you're coming to get it."

"Thanks, that's a big help," Shiro expressed, grateful, though he sounded tired now. Probably from the overwhelming knowledge of what he'd walked into, what he was going to have to try and do. He pulled out his wallet from his back pocket, retrieving a business card from the folds and handing it to Lance. "Will you call me if something changes?" Lance scanned the card. Takashi Shirogane. Illinois Department of Children and Family Services. Office address. Phone number. Fax number. Cell number. Email.

"Of course," Lance promised, knowing that he would be calling Shiro for any little reason at all. If Keith were scared. If Keith cried for him in his sleep. Now that he had permission and a phone number, now that he'd met him in person, he would never again hesitate about contacting Shiro.

"It's going to be all right, Keith," Shiro assured. "Lance is here with you, and I'll be back before eight tomorrow; I promise." Keith looked at Shiro, covered in the fragments of all the promises that had been made to him and broken before. Like they were shards of glass that he was going to cut himself holding on to because he was going to try, one more time, to see if they would hold true and together. Shiro must have seen this too; he returned to Keith's bedside, pressing his forehead against Keith's, closing his eyes.

"I won't if you won't," Shiro whispered to Keith, words that must have some secret meaning between them. Keith relaxed as soon as he heard them spoken. "Have Lance call me if you need something."

"I'll see you tomorrow," Keith whispered his hope out loud, looking at the blanket, resigned. Shiro nodded comfortingly, though he didn't seem satisfied. Lance knew he wanted to stay here, but he also knew that there were battles outside this room that only Shiro could tackle. They were a team now, Lance and Shiro. Lance would stay and mediate for Keith medically while Shiro went out to take care of the legal issues. He couldn't believe it was possible, but somehow that made him feel even more responsible for making sure Keith got the treatment he needed. He didn't want to let Shiro down.

Shiro shook Lance's hand, eyes filled with gratitude, then also shook Dr. Coran's as he made his way slowly toward the door. He looked over his shoulder at Keith, as though he wanted to say one last thing, but in the end he forced himself out into the hall, and Lance watched him speed up as he walked purposefully toward the exit. Lance wasn't quite ready for him to leave yet either. There was a lot that he thought they needed to talk about still, even though there were more important things for Shiro to do right now and they were definitely running out of time.

"I need to head upstairs myself," Coran said, bringing himself back to their attention. "Keith – I probably won't see you again. Dr. Delacroix will be taking over from here, so best of luck to you. As for you," Coran settled rather fierce blue eyes onto Lance. "If you need anything, you'll come to me, yeah?"

"I always do," Lance said dismissively, feeling uncomfortable, remembering what Angelique had said to Coran about him, wondering what she might have said before Coran had come into the room.

"Evidently, you don't," Coran countered darkly. "We don't have to get into it here or now, but sometime soon, I'd like to talk to you about what Angelique told me today and why you've been hiding it."

Lance hunched his shoulders, wanting to say something petulant like, "Do we really have to?" He truly didn't understand why everyone wanted to make such a big fuss over him. Why couldn't they just trust that he knew what he was doing and leave it at that? However, he felt that if he wanted to continue under Coran's mentorship, he would have to agree.

"Sure," he yielded, mostly so he could put it out of his head for a while. Maybe Coran would forget all about it. Actually, chances were almost guaranteed that he would. But Angelique wouldn't. Pity.

"Take care then – both of you," Coran said in parting, leaving Lance alone with Keith in the yellowish dark of the negative pressure room. It made Lance remember the previous time he'd been alone with Keith – the few minutes they'd spent together in his room right before Shiro and Officer Guist had tracked him down to Lance's apartment. He wasn't sure if things were improving or not from that point. He decided to pretend that they were.

"So," Lance said, forcing some cheerfulness into his voice as he dragged the chair from next to the door closer to the bed. He'd be here awhile, might as well pull up a seat. "Now we know what's going on with you. That's good."

Keith didn't seem close to convinced about that. He stared at Lance with his mouth open – the way he'd looked when Lance was speaking a foreign language. "_That's_ all you're going to say?" He choked on the confusion in his question. Lance shrugged, as though whatever they'd just heard and learned about each other was no big deal.

There was _plenty_ he wanted to say, though. What'd Shiro mean – the apartment where Lance had found Keith wasn't his? What was an exit interview and why didn't Keith have one? Who was Kasey? Was Krolia doing a good job as Keith's lawyer or was she being as careless as the rest of the DCFS employees responsible for Keith's wellbeing? And the huge, burning question that Lance desperately wanted and also did not want answered simultaneously. Had Keith really killed someone?

"What do you want me to say?" Lance questioned mildly, sitting down, putting himself at eye level with Keith.

"I don't know," Keith said, frustrated, resting his head and staring at the ceiling. The bed remained in a reclined position, but Keith had curled to the side, almost sitting up, facing Lance. He still wore the oxygen mask, but now that things had settled down in the room and the silence between them turned awkward, he started fidgeting with it. No one had turned the flow down yet; it was still maxed out at fifteen.

"You can probably take that off now," Lance invited, knowing how irritating it could be to have that much air blowing in your face when you no longer needed it. "It might freak out your nurse, but I think you can chance it."

Upon receiving permission, Keith practically tore the straps from the mask in his haste to get it off his face. He took a moment after flinging it to the side to examine himself, the hospital gown, the IV, all the electrodes connecting him to the EKG machine. The increasing panic on his face made Lance tense in preparation to hold him down. He looked like he might be at a breaking point, like he couldn't stand one more second strapped to this bed. He looked ready to start desperately and recklessly ripping lines off his body, which actually was a good and bad thing. It meant that he was feeling better, stronger, but Lance knew it was a false sense of wellness. If Keith were to actually start trying to move around much, he'd exhaust himself in a matter of minutes.

"You still need all the other stuff," Lance said preemptively. "I know it feels like you're tied up, but if you touch anything else, it'll set off all the alarms this room has. Take a deep breath and chill out."

Lance partially stood from the chair, watching as Keith didn't respond to his words. He hovered over him, ready to grab his wrists, trying to think of something to distract Keith from thinking too hard about how he couldn't get up. "Keith, look at me. Relax."

As Keith immediately shifted to the command, Lance was amazed anew at how big Keith's eyes were and how even though they were so wide and focused on him, he still couldn't decide on the color. They were dark, or maybe they weren't, and clouded. They _were_ still full of fear and frustration.

"You're going to be all right," Lance calmed, watching as his words flipped the fear, twisting it into disbelief. Keith pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. "You aren't going to be stuck like this forever."

"Just the next four to fifteen years," Keith murmured, ducking his head behind his knees. Lance bit into his lip, realizing that Keith was making a very dark joke about how long he could be sentenced to prison.

"Can I get you anything?" Lance tried to change the subject, not sure if he were ready for Keith to start lowering his guard over the details of the trial. He could no longer pretend to know nothing about it, but he surprisingly didn't want to talk about it yet either. Because once he knew the real truth, there would be no going back after that. He wanted to stall a little longer. "Maybe some ice? Are you hungry?"

Keith lifted his head, his expression quizzical, fierce, and defiant. "Why aren't you asking me what you really want to ask me?" He challenged. He sounded like he was up against a wall with nowhere to go, his voice stronger than it had been since yesterday morning. He sounded as though he thought the only way out was to charge through as quickly as possible and with hopefully minimal damage. Lance thought carefully about how he wanted to answer him, deciding to risk turning off the oxygen flow at the wall before saying anything. There was no point in having it on anymore.

"I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't curious," Lance allowed, returning to where Keith could see him, sitting down again. "But it's none of my business." And I've been telling myself that for two days.

"You saved my life," Keith returned, and Lance began to wonder if Keith actually wanted him to ask, wanted to tell him about it. But he somehow couldn't volunteer the information on his own unless Lance demanded it from him first. "And you got in trouble doing it."

"Keith, you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to," Lance maintained, feeling as though now that it looked as though he could have all the explanations he thought he wanted, he actually did not want them.

"I killed someone," Keith finally blurted out, and Lance sighed, wishing he hadn't said that.

"No, you didn't," he countered, amazingly calm, not truly knowing anything about it but somehow feeling that it just wasn't possible. Or maybe that he didn't want it to be possible.

"I did," Keith confirmed, sounding displeased that Lance wasn't believing or even reacting much to this revelation. "I'm not like you, ok? I'm not a good person."

"Shut up, Keith," Lance surprised himself by saying, but it felt good to rip the velvet gloves off how they talked to each other. So carefully. He knew what was happening now. Keith had been too sick before to put up much protest about anything. He'd been forced to submit to whatever Lance told him to do. But now, with his physical pain dulled to nothing and his heart behaving as it was supposed to, now Keith could act more like himself. The boy who kept his distance from anyone who might try to care about him just as Shiro had said. The boy who hurt people before they could hurt him. The boy who was afraid of what Lance would think of him now that he'd heard some of the truth. "You're not a bad person either."

"How do you know? You don't know anything about me." Keith's tone shifted somewhere between indignant and despondent.

"So tell me," Lance dared more than invited, even though he thought he knew more than Keith suspected. "Who was it? Why did you do it?" Because it just doesn't make sense.

"You should go home, Lance," Keith shifted, pulling back. "Go back to your friends; they're worried about you."

"They're worried about _you_," Lance pressed, leaning forward. "So is Shiro. So am I. I don't want to leave you alone, Keith, and I don't think you really want me to either."

"How can you be like that?" Keith demanded, perplexed. "Didn't you hear what I said?"

"It wasn't your fault, Keith," Lance insisted, though he knew he'd never be able to fully put into words why not or how he knew it without knowing any of the details. "You don't remember, but you talked about it last night. You said you didn't mean to, that you were sorry. You said that you just wanted him to stop. That doesn't sound like murder to me, Keith. It sounds like defense, and I can't believe they're putting you on trial for it. The whole thing is a joke."

Now Keith looked completely stricken, tamed and quiet. "You already knew?"

"Yes," Lance confessed, feeling guilty. "Pidge looked it up after hearing some of the stuff you said when you were out of it. She told me about the trial, that you'd confessed to a murder."

"And you still?" Keith was suddenly speechless, turning away to look at the IV in his hand. "Why?"

"Because I promised I'd take care of you until you were better," Lance told him, because it really was as simple as that. There are some people in this world who do keep promises, Keith, and I'm one of them. "And I believe that _if_ you really did kill someone, it was because you were forced to. Is that what happened?" There – he'd finally asked out loud. "Did you know him? Was he hurting you?"

"Me? No," Keith said, so quietly, slowly pulling Lance's blanket over himself as if for protection.

"Someone else then? No, wait," Lance stood up, running a hand through his hair. "You don't have to answer that. You don't have to tell me anything." He went to the stock cabinets, nervously turning on the faucet so he could splash some water on his face. What was going on here? Nothing even felt real or true anymore.

"I was in a bookstore," Keith began almost defiantly behind Lance, which made him shut off the water and hang his head over the sink, listening intently. "I used to hang out there a lot because it didn't close until midnight." Lance took a slow inhale. There was so much that Keith had given him in that sentence. He'd run away from Shiro, from the group home. He hung out in a bookstore because it was warm and safe and lessoned the time he had to spend in the night as a homeless teenager on the south side of Chicago.

"It wasn't that late, but it was already dark outside," Keith kept talking when Lance didn't turn or respond. It seemed there would be no going back now. "I heard some arguing in a corner – a girl trying to get some creep to leave her alone."

He wouldn't stop. He wouldn't get off. Lance hid his face in his hands, kept his back toward Keith.

"I got between them, told him to get lost. He backed off and left, the girl thanked me, and I thought we were done. She stayed in the store another thirty minutes, and I sort of watched her. She was shook up, you know? She'd called someone to come pick her up and was waiting for them to get there. I didn't offer to walk her out, but I should have. God, I should have."

Keith paused, overcome with regret. Lance carefully looked over his shoulder to see if Keith needed any help, checked his stats on the monitor to see if talking about this was damaging in any way. He opened his mouth to let Keith know that he could stop if he wanted to. That he didn't have to say any more if it were bothering him. At least, that's what he meant to say.

"Was he waiting for her outside? The guy you told off?" He asked instead, prompting Keith to continue, anticipating the scenario of these strangers. This situation that Keith had stepped into without knowing how horribly it would end for him.

"He grabbed her in the parking lot," Keith confirmed. "Started dragging her off. It was dark and cold – no one noticed. Her friend or sister or whoever her ride was didn't even see him – she was looking for a spot to park or something."

"But you saw him," Lance affirmed, hanging on Keith's every word.

"I ran out there, but he almost had her in his car already. I yelled at him, tried to drag him off her. I guess he used to be her boyfriend – that's why he was fighting so hard. I don't even remember what happened after he tried to punch me. There was screaming. I just kept hitting back until the police came and pulled me off him."

"And he was dead?" Lance asked, not sure why.

"No," Keith responded. "Not then. I put him in the hospital, but he didn't die until later."

"And the girl? Was she ok?"

"Yeah, she was fine – I think. Scared. I remember her sitting with her friend with a blanket over her – both of them staring at me when I was being handcuffed."

"Were you hurt?" Had anyone even checked? The girls – hadn't they explained what really happened? They were witnesses; they knew that Keith had only been trying to save someone. This was all wrong.

"I took a few hits, nothing serious," Keith responded, all the emotion stripped forcefully from his tone.

"And they're putting you on trial for this?" Lance asked, incredulous. This was nothing like what he'd imagined happened, not even close.

"That's what manslaughter is," Keith said, closing his eyes as Lance turned completely to face him. "He's dead because of what I did to him; his parents want me executed."

"God, stop. Just stop."

All Lance's life, he'd thought about what it would be like to live in America. Growing up in Cuba, he'd seen what it was like when a government owned your soul, where you were given barely all you needed to live but nothing more. He had seen executions. And he'd believed that it was different in the US. But after hearing about how this government, this supposedly free and just system, had taken one of its orphans and destroyed him when he'd done nothing wrong – this was too much to hear.

"You don't have to stay," Keith told him, keeping his eyes closed. As if he thought that now that Lance had the truth, he'd want to get away from Keith as quickly as possible and Keith didn't want to watch him leave. "I get it."

"No, you really don't," Lance fumed, furious and vindicated at the same time and not able to keep it out of his voice even though he knew that Keith would take it the wrong way. "This is. . . wrong. You saved her, Keith!"

But he could see very easily how it could have been thrown out of context. The couple had dated once. The girl hadn't been injured. No one could prove that her ex meant to harm her in any way. Lance could hear the arguments now. Why had Keith felt the need to go so far? There are other ways to stop someone without the use of lethal force. And knowing Keith's history . . . yeah, it was easy to see how it'd been twisted to be all Keith's fault even if the girl had told the truth. But it was still so unfair.

I didn't mean to, Keith had cried. Please, listen. You have to believe me.

And Shiro had been missing. Separated from Keith and unable to help him because he hadn't even known until Officer Guist appeared looking for Keith with the summons. He'd been on his own with no one to speak for him.

"Keith," Lance said again, because Keith had curled into a miserable ball under the blanket. Lance closed the distance between them, putting a gentle hand on Keith's shoulder. "Keith, thanks for telling me. It means a lot."

It meant that a piece of Lance's soul could ease about Keith. He wasn't a killer, and everyone who had told Lance he was being an idiot for sticking with Keith despite the evidence that it was a bad idea were wrong.

"It doesn't change anything," Keith lamented, and Lance had to admit to himself that this could also be the truth. Because there was still all that evidence that looked as though Keith were a danger to society, and Lance wasn't certain that anyone would take the time, especially now when the trial was basically over, to consider looking at it another way.

"You're right; it doesn't," Lance told him, which made Keith lift his head. Lance tightened his hold on Keith's shoulder. He looked absolutely wretched, expecting Lance to desert him like everyone else in his life. "Because I still want to be your friend," Lance confirmed, as serious as he could. "And I'm staying with you."

Keith's eyes welled up and he darted behind the blanket again with a frustrated hiss. "You're unbelievable," Lance heard him say, muffled under fabric and tears.

"Yeah, you are," Lance returned before letting it drop. Letting them both process. Lance really wanted to call Pidge and tell her off. He also wanted to call Shiro and beg him to figure a way out of this for Keith. There was no way he should go to prison for this. He'd been trying to help.

But the trial was over. The jury had made a decision. Lance was still reassuringly holding to Keith when Abbie came in with an IV bag full of the rust-colored iron solution. He held a finger to his lips and shook his head at her when she opened her mouth to ask them if they were ok. With professional understanding, she quickly slipped the bag onto the pole and inserted another line into Keith's existing IV. Lance shuddered, watching as the iron bled into the colorless saline solution, a treatment that looked more like something from a horror movie than anything beneficial. Abbie lifted her hand to her ear, mouthing the words "call me" before tip-toeing out the door.

Lance wished there was someone he could call. Wished that he weren't walking into this so late in the game, now when there was nothing he could really do. Keith peered out of the blanket, looking up at the IV pole fearfully, noticing how the color had changed so dramatically on the IV line in his hand. He turned to Lance, who tried to smile, knowing that even though he couldn't do much, he could make sure that whatever happened to Keith – he wouldn't go through it alone.

**Author's Note: Such a busy chapter, wasn't it? No one really moved much and yet, there felt like a lot of movement to me. I also feel less stuck now that Keith's FINALLY told us what happened.**

**At least . . . some of what happened.**

**As always thanks so much for patiently waiting and sticking with me. I'm still having a blast writing this, and I hope you are liking it too. Let me know what you think – I love hearing from you.**


	15. Convalescence

**Author's Note: Hey there guys, nice to be with you again. I have to admit, I'm a little surprised to see the word count on this go over my first novel on this site. I had kind of figured that this story would be shorter than that, but there's a LOT to go yet. How are you guys doing? Have a favorite scene? Have something you'd like to see more of? Have any questions you think I should have answered by now but I haven't touched on yet? Want to yell at me about something? (Like updating faster?)**

**You know what I want? An illustrator.**

**Chapter Fifteen: Convalescence**

"What the hell are they putting in me?" Keith asked, sounding equally disgusted and horrified, drawing out from where he'd hidden his face from Lance and shoving his hand with the IV line taped to his wrist toward him.

"It's iron," Lance told him, not even checking the tubes, knowing exactly what Keith was talking about, and it was a welcome change to the heaviness of where they'd ended their last conversation. "And yes, that's how it's supposed to look."

"Like they dumped out an old toolbox and mixed it with chocolate syrup?" Keith checked, pivoting his gaze between the bag hanging on the IV pole and the place where the needle disappeared into his vein. Lance unexpectedly burst out laughing, his extreme reaction a combined effect of the relief of learning the truth, seeing Keith's physical improvement, his own exhaustion, and hearing Keith talk, at last, like a normal person.

"Never heard anyone say it that way, but you're right," Lance explained himself, smiling at Keith, who was watching him closely again, his face serious but not offended. "Why are you staring at me like that?" Lance couldn't help but ask.

"I didn't know you knew how to laugh," Keith said, still serious, though there was something else there too. Something unrestrained, almost teasing.

"And I didn't know you were funny," Lance returned.

"Yeah, well," Keith deflated a little, squinting again at the line. "And this is really supposed to help?" If only Keith could see how much the solutions in the IV bags were already helping. His fever was still high, and he was very weak, but no longer so breathless or dehydrated. His heart beat steadily ninety times a minute, keeping his blood pressure nice and normal. So much improvement from gagging on pickle juice in near cardiac arrest on Lance's living room floor.

"It'll definitely help with the anemia, which will strengthen your immune system so it can do what it's programmed to do and kick that flu virus for you. In a couple of days, I bet you'll feel brand new. We should have come here a long time ago." Lance finished with his voice lowering into regret. "It wouldn't have been so bad," he admitted, hanging his head.

Keith fidgeted with the tape on his hand, smoothing the edges. "Lance," he began, a little unsure. Lance raised his eyes to pay close attention. Because whenever Keith said his name, it was important. "What's the deal with you? I don't get it."

"What's not to get?" Lance sought out more information, not really understanding what Keith was talking about. "I'm a pretty simple guy." Especially compared to you.

"Then why are all the doctors fighting about you?"

"Oh. . . that." Lance had kind of hoped that Angelique's and Coran's spat on the phone had been long ago forgotten and swallowed by the huge revelation that Keith had just given him regarding the truth of the murder trial. "I actually don't know."

Keith's face closed immediately, all the tentative trust in it shut off so fast that Lance almost gasped. He thought Lance was lying to him, withholding information, and he was pulling back. It made sense, but Lance was going to have to act very quickly to convince Keith that he was telling the truth. That might get uncomfortable, but related to what Keith had just told him, what he'd just trusted him with, he figured it was only fair. Lance had said they were friends; that meant he should try to trust Keith a little too.

"I mean, I know what the fight is, but I don't know why they think they need to have one," Lance remedied what he'd just said, watching Keith relax again. "Especially Dr. Delacroix. I thought she'd written me off a long time ago."

Keith continued to look interested, and they had a lot of time to kill before morning, so Lance went ahead and told him how he'd met Angelique and how he'd just as quickly fallen from grace with her only to have perked her interest again with one carefully placed IV line in an unauthorized place in the back of a moving ambulance.

"Wait," Keith said, wrapping his head around Lance's description of her. "You sure you're talking about the same person? Because I've never been called so many pet names in my life."

"You're a patient; that's different," Lance explained. "But she makes almost all of her students cry or quit, and you heard her talk to Coran. She's got to the point where she's refused to teach regular classes anymore, and she only presents one or two lectures a year. Anything she does on a student basis is strictly one-on-one by invitation only."

"How come she's allowed to do that?"

"Because she's awesome at her job, so they let her have a lot of freedom when it comes to the teaching part. Having her name on a federal grant application means it's practically guaranteed to be funded. And any student who can claim her for a mentor or get a letter of recommendation from her can probably just pick whatever job they want anywhere."

"And she's going to be your mentor?" Keith asked, sounding surprised, or perhaps impressed.

"No way! Dr. Coran is my mentor. I wouldn't last five minutes with Dr. Delacroix. Like I said, she's tough on students, and she hasn't invited anyone to shadow her for a long time."

"Why?" Keith wondered out loud. "Something to prove or what?"

"I think it's just because being an ER doctor is really difficult," Lance said, actually enjoying himself. Liking that they were talking, just sitting here talking. He wished they were at home and that they didn't have frightening things like verdicts looming over them, but if he brought his attention in enough, just focused on the sound of Keith's voice and the safe-for-the-moment topic, he could pretend that they were just friends having a regular conversation. "She doesn't want to waste her time on people she knows would break under the pressure. Not everybody can handle it."

"You can," Keith encouraged, sounding completely convinced.

"No," Lance denied, almost shuddering when he remembered what it had taken for him to perform this afternoon and what it had done to him afterward. "That's not for me. That's not the kind of doctor I want to be anyway."

"Then what kind do you want to be?" Keith asked.

"I want to be a pediatrician," Lance disclosed. "Have my own practice with steady hours, you know? I want to help children."

Keith looked a little skeptical now, different than when he'd thought Lance was lying to him. This was more like he thought Lance didn't even know what was he was talking about. Lance was going to go a little more into it, to prove that he knew what he wanted, but before he could gather any evidence, Keith moved on.

"So if you aren't her student and you don't want to work in the ER, why does she care so much what you do?" Keith asked, as if Lance knew the answer to that.

"See, that's where we're both confused," Lance said. "I have no idea; I didn't even know she'd been paying any attention to me since she had me in her office months ago. It's weird."

"She wants you in the ER," Keith speculated. "She knows you can do it, and she doesn't want anyone to screw it up for you before she can get you in. That's why she's so pissed."

"That," Lance started to protest but then paused to consider. Could that be true? No, no way. But then again . . . she had come to him. There'd been something strange in how she questioned him, how she asked for his opinion on what should be done. Like she was testing him. Coran said that she'd been watching him; she'd kept that coffee cup on her desk. Maybe it was a possibility. But she hadn't mentored a student in years; there were all sorts of rumors about what had happened to the last one. "You think?"

"That's why I said it," Keith said, dryly. "You should think about it. You're pretty damn good at it."

Except you almost died because I'm not any good at it, Lance wanted to tell him. He decided to turn the conversation back to Keith instead.

"What about you?" Lance flipped. "What do you want to do?" But his question almost crippled Keith, making him wish he hadn't asked it. Keith opened his mouth, then closed it, shaking his head, seeming to shrink.

"I don't think it'll matter much what I want," he revealed, dark and sad again, and Lance also heard how it had never much mattered what Keith wanted. Most of his choices were forced onto him by others. He hadn't had a whole lot of freedom, even after he'd run away.

"You're not going to jail for this, Keith," Lance promised, though he knew there was no way he could know and definitely no way he could guarantee. He just couldn't imagine Keith being punished for trying to save someone. Keith obviously thought differently.

"I've already gone to jail for this," he shot back, bitter.

"What?" Lance sputtered, thrown off balance. "What do you mean?" Keith looked rather sorry that he'd said anything. "Keith?"

"I mean the first time this went to trial, I was sentenced to six months in juvie," Keith tossed out rather quickly, sounding mad and hopeless. "So yeah, pretty sure it'll be the same."

"Wait, back up," Lance scrambled, trying to make sense out of anything Keith was saying. Just when he thought he understood what was going on. It was like Keith specialized in shock value, and Lance had to think about what that word meant. He hadn't heard it before. "Juvie . . .Like a juvenile detention center?" Pidge had said that Keith had spent some time in a correctional facility. But that couldn't have been for this, could it? "And what do you mean the first time? You can't be put on trial twice for the same thing." He was almost one hundred percent certain about that, though he admitted he didn't know everything about the American legal system. "Was it the same guy?" Or did this mean that somehow Keith had killed more than one person accidentally? No. That was just . . too out there.

So what did Keith mean?

"It doesn't matter," Keith said, melting into the bed.

"No, Keith, it really does," Lance contradicted, forcing himself not to lean too close to Keith in his sudden intensity. How much more twisted could these facts be? "When did you beat this guy up anyway? How old were you?" Because juvenile meant younger than eighteen, which meant that this happened some time ago. But then why?

"Sixteen," Keith answered brusquely, looking at Lance the way that Lance suspected he looked at the prosecuting attorney. Cooperative, but only at the most minimum level required. A look that probably hadn't won him much trust in the courtroom. Now Lance was very confused. He knew that sometimes the judicial system took a while, but almost two years seemed extreme for something to come to trial. But Keith had just said it had already gone to trial when he was still a minor and this was the second time. But that was impossible. What the hell was Keith talking about?

"That was over a year ago – why is all of this coming up now? Or again?" Lance couldn't help but ask, needing Keith to explain it since every time Lance tried figuring out an explanation on his own it was wrong.

"Because he just died six weeks ago," Keith said, annoyed, as if it were obvious, sounding as though he'd like to change the subject. He didn't want to talk about these details anymore, but Lance wasn't quite finished. In fact, he'd pounced up from the chair, beginning to pace as he always did when he needed his brain to put details in order. When the world didn't seem to be working the way he thought it should, and he felt like he needed to do something about it even when he didn't know how or what or if there was anything he actually could do. "Lance, what the hell?"

"Exactly," Lance muttered in agreement, thinking, moving back and forth in the tight space of the triage room. "So if he just died recently, what did they send you to jail for the first time? Assault?" Because that could be it. Keith beat up this person, who was sent to the hospital but didn't die. Keith consequently was sentenced to six months in a correctional facility as a minor on assault charges, was released and thinking everything was over, but then was arrested again because the person he beat up over a year ago suddenly . . what? Just up and died six weeks ago? But how would that involve Keith at all?

"Lance, stop that," Keith commanded instead of answering. "I hate it when you . . Hold still."

Lance turned his head to look at Keith, and he tried to stop pacing, he really did, but this information had lit him up like a stick of dynamite. Something didn't add up; something was off about this and not in Keith's favor. And something needed to be done about it. Now.

"You're telling me," Lance clarified. "That they're trying to convict you for this guy dying even though you beat him up over a year ago? They can't do that – did you even see him?"

Because Keith had already said he hadn't. I never touched him. I didn't go near him. That's what he said last night. I didn't even know.

"Lance, come on, knock it off," Keith begged gruffly, reaching for him from where he lay pinned to the hospital bed. Lance forced himself over to the bedside, standing next to the chair with both hands on his hips, chewing on his lip in agitation. The situation had seemed unjust before, but now? It was even worse. There had to be someone they could talk to about this.

"How can they say it was you?" Lance almost barked the question, not necessarily at Keith, though he was conveniently the only one in the room. "So much time between. That makes no sense. That's not even fair. What did your lawyer say?"

"Can we quit talking about this?" Keith said, but Lance could hardly hear him.

"It couldn't have been your fault," Lance continued, overcome with how much he wanted that to be true and also how powerless he felt about convincing everyone else that he was right about it. "There's no way."

"But it was!" Keith shouted, and now Lance had to close up and start paying attention. Keith was panting, his outburst taking more energy than he had to spare. He'd put a hand against his chest, glaring at Lance even though his other hand was still outstretched, resting against the guardrail. He bowed his head, his back curling down. Keith gasped in some more oxygen so he could keep going now that he had Lance's focus. "He died of complications from the brain injury I gave him, ok? It _is_ my fault. Because every time I try to do anything right, I fuck it up. It's always like that and it's always going to be like that, got it? Quit trying to pretend I'm -" he cut himself off, choking on the word for whatever he suspected Lance thought.

"Keith," Lance tried to pacify him, a little too late. The hand that had been reaching for him pulled back as Keith rested his palm against his forehead. He'd probably made himself dizzy yelling like that. "I'm just –"

"Just go away," Keith demanded, voice firm though quiet. "Go pace somewhere else. I'm tired."

"Keith, I'm sorry-" Lance began, amazed that he was being sent away over this. If Keith wanted to change the subject, they could change the subject. He wasn't convinced in the least, but they didn't have to talk about it anymore.

"Leave me alone," Keith commanded again.

"Keith, I'm on your side about this," Lance tried to explain, but Keith wouldn't look at him. He was fishing around all the various cords and tubes on the bed, searching for the remote with the nurse call button on it, as though he were going to flag down someone to physically remove Lance from the room. "I'm just trying to help you."

"I never asked you to!"

Lance felt his teeth click shut, shocked, remembering how he had indeed volunteered himself into Keith's life, into all of this, practically forced Keith to accept him. Keith's first words to him had been a request for Lance to stay away after a punch to the face. Anyone with common sense would have run in the other direction and never looked back.

"Get out," Keith said again, voice very quiet now, face turned away.

"Fine. I'll leave if that's what you want," Lance gave in, remorseful, hurt, and angry. He grabbed his coat and backpack, ashamed and suddenly lost. But maybe Keith was right; this was getting too strange. Lance was too invested. It was starting to be unhealthy, and maybe Lance was trying too hard to force a lie into the truth. At some point, he was going to have to accept facts, even if he didn't want to. He needed some time to sort through this, and he needed to do it somewhere that Keith wasn't yelling at him.

"Good luck," Lance said, already with his back toward Keith, headed out to the hallway. He hesitated, just slightly, at the door, listening intently for Keith to call him back. Kind of hoping that he would, but Keith didn't say anything else, and Lance had already committed to leaving, so without any invitation from Keith he didn't feel he could change his mind at this point. He shrugged himself out of the room and stalked off.

He marched past the triage rooms and out of the emergency wing entirely. He didn't even pause to wave to Reggie; he was so insulted and mad. And the anger didn't have a target, so that made it feel worse, all hot and furious inside his stomach with nowhere to go. Damn it, Keith; I'm just trying to help. That's all I've been doing since I found you in that apartment. Despite what everyone's been telling me about how I shouldn't. And this is how you react to that, huh? How ungrateful could a person get?

"Idiot," Lance murmured to himself as he wandered the darkened hospital, through the busy emergency waiting room, into the main part of the building. First, he walked unconsciously to the closed plasma donation center, just needing to move. Needing to put some distance between him and Keith. Why the hell was he so mad at Lance anyway? Why kick him out? All he wanted to do was clear Keith of this supposed crime that Lance still wasn't convinced he was responsible for. How was that a bad thing? He pivoted against the closed doors of the donation center and headed toward the hospital entrance, fuming.

Lance flopped onto one of the more comfortable chairs in the front reception area near the gift shop, where everything was dark and closed for the night. There wasn't a soul working in this portion of the hospital, not even a janitor. It was the perfect place for a pity party. What was Lance supposed to do now?

Go home, was the immediate answer from one part of his mind, and he had to admit that seemed a tempting choice. It was getting close to eleven; Coran had already offered him a ride if he wanted it. All he had to do was hop in the elevator across reception and take it to the third floor. Coran wouldn't even ask him why he'd changed his mind. It would be the easiest thing to do. His apartment would be warm and smell divinely like Hunk's baking. He could get some food – he hadn't eaten anything since the curry early this afternoon. If he tried hard enough, he could maybe cut this whole experience from his emotional database. Keith? Who's that? No one I know. The thought was meant to be sarcastic, but Lance found that it actually cut pretty deep. Just when he'd thought they could get to know each other a little better, maybe they could actually start being real friends instead of just strangers thrown into this random situation. But Keith didn't have friends, Shiro said. Well now Lance could see why if he pushed them away every time they tried to help him.

Lance swept his legs up and over the armrest of the chair, folding his arms and, being careful of the wound on his back, scrunching down until his neck nestled against the opposite armrest, crossing his ankles and swinging them a little as he sat there deliberating.

"I left my blanket," he whispered to himself. Ugh. How was he supposed to get that back? Maybe Abbie would do it. He could go ask her. She'd probably look at him funny, but what else was new? That's what everyone was doing to him lately. Officer Guist, Angelique, Shiro, Pidge – they all looked at him with the same damn question in their faces. What are you doing here with him?

Lance covered his face with his hands, exhausted both mentally and physically. His body sank deep into the chair, pinched between the armrests, his coat and backpack on the floor beside him. All his nervous energy quieted here in the dark silence of the reception area, shorted out like a burnt fuse and leaving him boneless, draped in the chair like an afghan. He'd have to get up in a minute, though, if he wanted to catch Coran.

He pulled his phone from his pocket to check the time, almost dropping it as it started to ring in his hands, breaking the atmosphere. The number appearing on the screen was one Lance didn't recognize.

"Hello?" Lance greeted, dragging himself upright in the chair.

"Hi, Lance, it's Takash . . it's Shiro," came the answer. "How are things going over there? Keith ok?" Lance rolled his eyes, glad Shiro couldn't see him.

"Don't know," he replied curtly. "He kicked me out of his room."

"Oh good!" Shiro exclaimed immediately, sounding oddly relieved, which made Lance's jaw drop. What? Good? He felt tears sting his eyes and he blinked them impatiently away, pushing his fingertips against the corners. He was not going to get upset about this; it shouldn't matter.

"Yeah, it was great," he said facetiously. It was one thing for Keith to have done it, but it hurt more than Lance expected to hear that Shiro sounded happy about it. Fine thing to say to the guy who saved Keith's stupid life!

"Sorry, Lance," Shiro apologized, his tone softened significantly. "That didn't come out right. He probably said some pretty cruel stuff to you, huh? But it does sound more like the Keith I know, which means he's feeling better. Are you ok?"

"It doesn't matter," Lance tried to say, but then he had to click the mute on his phone so Shiro wouldn't hear him sniffle. He rubbed his sleeve aggressively against his face, wincing.

"I know it's not the best way to show it, but that's actually how I know Keith likes you," Shiro defended him, and Lance shrugged even though Shiro couldn't see him. Not the best way to show it? Try the _worst way_ to show it. He was so tired. "Where are you now? Still in the hospital? You're not with Keith?"

No! Lance wanted to yell. Weren't you listening? He kicked me out! I'm going home, like I should have done hours ago. I don't need this mess.

"I'm waiting for Dr. Coran," Lance said, his voice icy, looking toward the elevator as though he expected to see his ginger-haired mentor appearing out of it any second. "He said he'd give me a ride."

"Oh," Shiro vocalized his disappointment, but seriously, what did he expect? "Of course, but can I ask what happened? What did Keith say?"

"He told me why he's on trial," Lance practically snarled. Cool it, he admonished himself. It's not Shiro's fault that Keith is a jerk. "But it doesn't make any sense. When I tried to ask him some more questions, he got mad and wanted me to leave."

"He told you what happened?" Shiro repeated, incredulous. "Lance – you don't understand what it took for him to do that."

"Is it true?" Lance heard himself ask, glossing over how hard it might have been for Keith to say anything. He didn't want to give Keith any credit right now. At least, not where he was concerned. But if Keith wouldn't give him the details he was looking for, maybe Shiro would. "They're really blaming him for this guy dying more than a year after Keith attacked him?"

"It does look like the events are related," Shiro answered, sad. "Though I haven't had a chance to hear back from Ms. Krolia yet about how the trial went. I wish I'd been there, but I just didn't know it was happening. I thought that was all behind us after Keith was given the sentence for the assault charges."

"It's not fair," Lance unexpectedly blurted out, sounding whiny to himself despite his conviction. "Even if they are related, Keith saved that girl. It's not a crime to prevent a crime."

"It is according to the Hunts," Shiro corrected him, also sounding cold.

"What?" Lance asked, confused, feeling as though his brain had somehow slowed down after sunset. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take.

"William Hunt," Shiro went on. "He works for Citadel - financial trading. He and his wife, Lisa, live out in Oak Brook, one of the wealthiest families in Chicago."

"And they matter because?" Lance prompted, realizing just at this moment that he had a headache.

"Because they believe Keith killed their son for no reason. They're the ones pressing the charges, and they can take it as far as they need it to go."

"But Shiro," Lance sputtered, curling over to lay his head on the armrest, closing his eyes. "That's wrong; they can't really do that, can they?" Another sentence that Keith had said in his fever dream. They can't. Can they really do that? Tell them.

"Unfortunately, they can, but in this case, they aren't going to have to try very hard. The report makes a convincing argument that David, that's his name, died as a result of his previous injuries."

"What exactly did Keith do to him?" Lance pondered out loud, thinking he was being quiet enough for Shiro not to hear.

"Think about it," Shiro answered, proving that Lance hadn't been as quiet as he thought. "Look what he did to you half asleep and with a fever with just one punch. Now imagine him healthy, angry, and actually trying to hurt you." Lance decided not to go too deep into a vision like that. Just thinking about how Keith looked at him after that first punch was bad enough.

"So what do we do?" Lance asked, then wanted to smack himself. He didn't need to do anything. He wasn't obligated in any way to defend or help Keith. In fact, Keith had basically told him that he didn't want Lance to help him at all.

"You've done plenty, Lance; I can't thank you enough," Shiro said, his voice warm, though still worried. "Though I wish you could . . . no, never mind. Go ahead and head home. You sound pretty tired."

"What do you need me to do, Shiro?" Lance requested, because even though he was tired, Shiro sounded worse. Not only that, they were kind of in the same situation. Shiro had more information and more history, but both of them had come into Keith's life here at this point, where most of the damage was already done. Lance felt nothing but respect for Shiro, which meant that he also wanted to help him.

"It's not fair to ask you, Lance," Shiro told him, though Lance could hear how desperately Shiro wanted to ask. He also thought he knew what it was.

"You want me to stay with him," Lance said it for him.

"I know he can be difficult," Shiro admitted. "But yes, I do want someone to stay with him. I can't stand thinking of him in that room all night alone. I've never seen him sick like this before, and I know he's scared, though he'll never admit it. And I don't think there is anyone better than you to watch over him while I'm trying to sort out this mess to see if there's anything we can do to get Keith out of it. But I get that he hurt you, and he probably will again even if he's trying hard not to, so I understand if you need to leave."

"I'd stay if I thought he'd let me anywhere near him," Lance gave the excuse, but it sounded pretty weak. Keith hadn't asked or really wanted Lance to come to his apartment, but that hadn't stopped him. What sort of person was he if a little argument would make him break his promise? And Keith wasn't the only one who got annoyed when Lance was fidgeting too much. Pidge had almost screamed at him about it. It even bothered Hunk, who was arguably the most laid-back guy in the world. Lance had pushed too far, despite Keith asking him to stop. He probably owed him an apology.

"I think you'd be surprised," Shiro encouraged. "Keith reacts on instinct most of the time, and he doesn't think too far ahead about consequences. I'll bet he's sitting in that room mad at himself and wondering why he said what he did. He'll act rough about it, but if you can be strong and walk back in there, I don't think he'll say anything to stop you. And if he does? You can ignore it – it's just defense for him to pretend he doesn't feel anything or doesn't want you to be there. And neither of those things are true."

Lance decided then that not only had Shiro been one hell of a fighter pilot, he'd been a leader. Who knew to how many, but whatever the situation, Shiro had been in charge. Lance felt the beginnings of loyalty swell inside his chest, and he knew that there probably wasn't much he wouldn't do in order to gain Shiro's approval. But in this case, Shiro was asking him to do something he secretly wanted to do anyway. He just needed an external reason. Somehow it made it easier thinking of it as a request. Lance could go back and sit with Keith as a favor to Shiro. It was like receiving permission.

"All right, fine," he gave in, putting more annoyance into his voice than he actually felt. He heard Shiro sigh in relief.

"Thank you, Lance," he said. "I know it's not obvious, but Keith trusts you. I'll check in again later."

"Great," Lance answered, hoping that when he did there would be some good news. Shiro hung up, leaving Lance alone in the dark again. He rested his arms against his knees, allowing his body to droop, giving himself just a few more minutes before he gathered his energy to head back to Keith. It was going to be a very long night. Although, probably not as long as last night. Nothing could be worse than last night.

"Let's hope not," Lance whispered, pushing himself upright and once again picking up his coat and backpack. Maybe it was time to see exactly what Hunk had put in there; it seemed unnaturally heavy now that he thought about it. He tossed it over his shoulders, sagging under the weight and beginning to plod through the hallways towards the emergency room entrance. He felt neither brave nor strong. Mostly he felt defeated.

Reggie noticed as Lance dragged himself to his desk to ask to be let in almost fifteen minutes after he said good-bye to Shiro. He'd walked considerably slower back than the angry march that had brought him away.

"Boy, what you still doin' here?" The security guard asked, his broad drawl bringing instantaneously the remembered taste of molasses to Lance's mouth, reminding him how hungry he was. "I figure you'd gone home a long time ago."

"My friend's still in there," Lance answered, tiredly lifting his eyes as if he could see past the locked double doors to the triage rooms. "I can't leave him."

"Oh, so it's your friend," Reggie repeated thoughtfully, as though something had just clicked into place for him. "I thought you was doin' something w'the ambulance and wondered why you wasn't in uniform."

It had taken Lance a couple weeks to get a grip on the way Reggie spoke English. When they'd met, he'd had to ask him to repeat himself three or four times, more slowly after each utterance, actually squinting at his mouth before he got it. Now he didn't need that kind of focus; he could enjoy the flow – warm and musical.

"He goin' be ok?" Reggie asked, studying Lance with a friendly, though concerned eye.

"Too soon to tell," Lance said quietly, though he knew Reggie was only asking about Keith's physical condition. On that point, Lance knew he'd be fine, but the other stuff seemed just as critical.

"You goin' be ok?" Reggie shifted, watching him. Lance nodded woodenly.

"Can I get back in, please?" He asked, trying to make it clear that he wasn't up for much chatting right now. No offence, Reggie, he thought, hoping the sentiment could be read in his posture and expression.

"Hang on a minute, son," Reggie paused him, leaving the entrance locked as he ducked behind the desk, opening a drawer. "Got something for you." Lance just barely had the energy to be curious about that. He heard the rustle of thin plastic, items being transferred. When Reggie straightened, he extended the handles of a grocery bag to Lance, who kept his hands secured to his backpack straps.

"I can't take that, Reggie; it's your lunch," Lance protested, glimpsing what could have been a wrapped sandwich inside.

"Now don't you worry. My girl packed me extra today because of the snow. You take that, then, go on."

"Thanks," Lance said, deeply touched, taking the bag now with both hands and holding it tenderly to his chest.

"Take it easy, boy," Reggie told him, pressing the button that would unlock the doors. "I'll be prayin' for you." Lance closed his eyes tight hearing that. Something his mother always said when they finished speaking. _R__ezaré por ti, mijo. _He could sure use it.

Not trusting to be able to speak, he waved at Reggie, holding the bag close to his chest in appreciation, leaving him behind at his guard desk to head back into the emergency room. It was busier here than the main reception area, but there was a definite lull in the movement. Lance knew it would pick up again around two in the morning, but for right now, the entire city was transitioning into bed. The potential patients who suspected they may need help were still waiting it out at home, deciding to see how they felt in the morning, the roads were clearing of traffic, meaning less chance for accidents. The bars were still open, but it wasn't late enough for trouble there yet. Several nurses, including Abbie, chatted casually together at their station as they organized their charts and drank coffee or tea. Only one had a phone to her ear. Lance didn't count how many of the triage rooms were occupied as he made his way around the bend, didn't pay much attention as to which curtains were pulled closed. He wasn't here for that this time.

Keith's room looked abandoned from the outside, all the way at the end of the unit, door closed tight with the sign posted on it commanding all future entrants to stop for masks and gloves before going in. If Lance didn't know better, he would have wondered if Keith had been moved while he'd been gone. The lights remained as Abbie had left them, off but for the one behind the bed on the wall. As Lance stepped closer, he could see Keith through the open blinds of the hall window. He was turned away from the entrance, almost completely covered by Lance's quilt. Possibly asleep. Lance felt a little guilty about how easily he'd almost left him behind.

As quietly as he could, Lance let himself into the room without knocking. Since he wasn't interested in what Keith had to say about whether or not he was there, he figured he could skip the part where he pretended to ask permission. And if Keith were sleeping, he didn't want to disturb him.

But Keith wasn't asleep. He turned to look over his shoulder, hearing someone coming in. When he saw it was Lance, he almost pulled the quilt all the way over his head, turning his whole body away from him on the bed. Lance let that go, remembering what Shiro had said, returning to his seat and calmly putting down his stuff. The iron infusion was maybe a third of the way complete, judging from how much was still left in the IV bag.

"Hey," Lance called very softly, a gentle alert that he was back even though he knew Keith had seen him.

"You done freaking out?" Keith asked, the sound muffled from his position.

"Yep," Lance answered, as casually as possible, keeping his emotions carefully closed.

"I thought you went home," Keith accused, his body folded tight.

"I thought about it," Lance said, deciding to be honest.

"Is Shiro making you stay?" Keith asked, rather suddenly, and just like that Lance could hear the pain again. It made him pause, sad at how he'd almost hurt Keith by leaving him, especially after he'd been so mad at everyone else he'd learned about who had done that.

"He _asked_ me to stay," Lance acknowledged. "But he can't make me do anything I didn't want to do in the first place."

Keith shifted slightly, rotating his torso backward so he could look at Lance properly. He kept his arms folded against his chest and his hips didn't move, leaving him looking rather uncomfortably twisted. He studied Lance carefully, gauging his mood and motives. Lance kept still and silent, feeling as though he were being assessed for danger by a wild animal. He tried to be as non-threatening as possible.

"He's pretty awesome, huh?" Lance allowed when he couldn't take the staring anymore, still speaking of Shiro.

"He's a military pilot," Keith volunteered. "He flies an F-35 Lightning fighter jet."

There was so much respect and admiration in Keith's voice, talking about Shiro as though he had never been injured, had never been put on medical leave, as if he still jumped in his plane every weekend to take out terrorists, and Lance remembered something Pidge had told him. Keith had tried to join the Air Force, but had been turned down. Shiro must have been so influential for Keith, such a positive role model. It was too bad that he wasn't being allowed to follow his example. Wasn't allowed to stay with Shiro. That Keith thought they had to be separated. It made Lance feel empty, but he didn't know why.

"That's really cool," Lance complimented, feeling as though Keith would accept these words as if Lance had said them about him.

"Yeah," Keith agreed, then the conversation sputtered into awkward silence again. Lance could tell that neither of them was going to bring up what had happened, for their own personal reasons, but now it seemed they didn't know what to do with each other. Lance almost asked Keith how he was feeling a couple of times, but thought it might not be the best way to start talking again. So he leaned back as far as he could without tipping the chair over, interlocking his fingers and pressing them against the top of his head. He wondered if Coran had remembered to ask for that cot.

"You think your table is really buried in cookies?" Keith asked, sounding innocent in his disbelief. Lance smiled.

"Pidge might have given them all away by now," he said, picturing it, almost smelling it. "But yeah, Hunk can do some serious baking when he's worried."

"Wish we had some," Keith muttered, forcing Lance to sit up.

"Are you actually hungry?" He checked.

"I can't tell – maybe," Keith said, noncommittedly. "Is that ok?" Lance leaned forward carefully, stretching out a hand.

"It's more than ok," Lance assured. "It's a good sign. Can I?" He began to ask for permission, but Keith cut him off.

"Whatever," he said, which was sort of agreement. Lance hesitated one more second before putting his palm against Keith's forehead. Keith shuddered, wincing, his expression tightening but then relaxing suddenly with an exhale as he got used to the pressure and temperature of Lance's hand, beginning to lean into it. Lance almost expected Keith's fever to have broken while he'd been gone, but no. He was still burning up. Lance frowned, disappointed, even though Keith expressing that he could be hungry was still an upgrade from before. If only Lance had something he might be able to eat.

"Well?" Keith asked, a little impatiently, and Lance withdrew his hand.

"Still high," he told him. Keith looked away, wilting, this illness wearing on him more than just physically. Lance decided to distract him by examining his backpack. He dipped down, pulling it up and plopping it on Keith's bed between them. "Should we see what's in here? Hunk might have packed something edible," he suggested. Keith shrugged, arms still folded, though he did turn his hips, lying on his back now, head resting but turned toward Lance again.

Lance undid the zipper, pulling apart the opening to peer inside. His chemistry book was still in there, and his notebook and the little bag of oddments he kept with him like an extra pen, a tiny stapler, and his calculator. He pulled out his Spanish / English dictionary that he hadn't used for months but was too paranoid not to carry around with him. He found his phone charger, resting it on his lap since he knew he would be plugging it in very soon. There was a small plastic bag with a spoon in it that Lance set out on the bed.

"This is promising," he said lightly, drawing out a travel thermos and unscrewing the cap. He had to turn it toward the light, sniffing it experimentally, recognizing the scent. "Oh, yes, thanks Hunk," he breathed.

"What is it?" Keith asked, maneuvering himself upright against the angled upper portion of the bed, interested in spite of himself.

"Proof that Hunk likes you more than me," Lance answered, handing over the thermos and reaching for the spoon. "That's the last of the rice pudding Hunk made a few days ago. He threatened my life if I touched it. Looks like he's willing to give it up for you, though."

"It's probably yours," Keith countered, though he took the container, looking almost wistfully inside it. "I don't think I can eat it."

"It's soft enough; it shouldn't hurt your mouth too much," Lance told him. "Trust me; he sent it for you." Lance dropped the spoon into the pudding, nodding reassuringly. "See if you can handle a bite or two."

"What are you going to do? If I'm hungry, I know you've got to be," Keith returned.

"I'm set," Lance assured, leaning over to snag the bag with half of Reggie's lunch in it. Keith tilted his head questioningly, asking without words where the bag had come from. "The security guard at the ER entrance shared his lunch with me. Guess I looked hungry and pathetic."

"You look tired," Keith pointed out, adding his opinion to Shiro's. Well, of course he looked tired. He'd only managed a couple hours sleep last night, it was after eleven now, and it had been one of the most stressful days in his life.

"So do you," Lance shot back, though gently. "Try and eat that so you can get some sleep."

Keith picked up the spoon, stirring the contents of the thermos slowly, his face a painful jumble of wanting to and being afraid to.

"Go on," Lance encouraged, steady, opening Reggie's bag as he did so. Keith took a deep breath, practically inhaling the spoon, keeping it in his mouth as he tested the bite, closing his eyes. Lance decided that he liked watching Keith eat. He did it with an appreciation of someone who hadn't always had ready access to food, who had to fight with himself between shoveling huge bites into his mouth as quickly as possible and savoring each bit to make it last longer. With the pudding, savoring won out, and Keith sort of moaned softly with his mouth full.

"Ok?" Lance checked. Just because he thought the pudding wouldn't bother the blisters in Keith's mouth didn't mean it was true.

"How does he do this?" Keith asked, releasing the spoon so he could plunge it back into the thermos. "I've never tasted anything like it."

"I have a couple theories," Lance responded. "I figure he's either an alchemist or he sold his soul to a crossroads demon." Keith raised an eyebrow at him, not bothering to give an answer to this because he was busy taking another bite.

Lance decided to see what Reggie had given him. He left Keith alone to consider the contents of the bag. There was an apple, what turned out to be half an enormous BLT sandwich, a brownie, and a baggie of pretzels. It all looked mouthwatering to Lance, though he felt bad about eating it in front of Keith. Hunk's rice pudding was one of Lance's favorite things, but it wasn't actual food. It didn't feel right to eat things that Keith couldn't.

"You gonna stare at it or eat it?" He heard Keith ask, breaking the hesitation. Lance plucked the apple from the bag and tore into it, the tangy sweetness filling his mouth.

For the next few minutes, both Lance and Keith were too busy to talk or even notice each other much. Though it wasn't too long before Lance started offering Keith pieces of what he had, just to test it. Keith shook his head at a pretzel, though Lance already knew the salt on them would burn. It was the same story with the bacon on the sandwich, but the way Keith was eyeing it made Lance tear off a bite for him regardless.

"That's a bad idea," Keith told him, meeting his eyes, which let Lance know that even though Keith knew it was a bad idea, he still wanted it.

"You're right," Lance agreed, hand still outstretched, thinking that Keith was going to do it anyway. He reached over, fingers almost touching the bread before he changed his mind and drew back, shaking his head.

"Not worth it," Keith muttered as Lance felt pity settle heavy into the bottom of his stomach, turning the taste of the food in his mouth and immediately eliminating any appetite Lance had. He swallowed hard.

"Want me to see if I can find you something else?" Lance offered, though he sort of hoped the answer would be no. The hospital kitchen had closed down a long time ago, and the options that Keith could tolerate were pretty few. Still, if Keith wanted him to, he would try.

"It's ok," Keith absolved him. "I'm done." The spoon rested in the empty thermos, which Keith now held a little awkwardly, not knowing what to do with it. Lance reached for it helpfully, recapping it and returning it to his backpack.

"Is there anything you need?" Lance continued, wanting to be of service.

"No," Keith sighed, leaning against the bed, his hands resting loose in his lap. Lance moved everything to the side, giving himself the freedom to stand up to help tuck Keith in.

"How are you doing, Keith?" Lance felt it safe to ask. "How's your heart?"

"It hurts," Keith admitted, voice catching just slightly. Lance barely heard it. He pulled the quilt up to Keith's chin, letting go to rest his palm against his chest, worried. The pulse had been steady for a long time now; the pain medication should be taking all of Keith's discomfort. He shouldn't be feeling much of anything. Keith began to curl up; Lance could almost see the weight of his life crushing him against the bed. He wondered what Keith was thinking about right now, recognizing that the pain Keith felt was more an ache in his soul than anything physical.

"That's normal," Lance comforted him, grateful that Shiro had talked him into staying.

"How long?" Keith began, but couldn't finish the question. Lance understood why. There was usually a tipping point in an illness, especially a long intense one like Keith's, where it became too exhausting to hope and it just felt as though there would never be an end. That they would continue to feel awful forever. For Keith, as always, it was worse because even if he felt better, he was still convinced that his life would not return to normal. His future was as dark and cold as the storm on the lake had been last night.

"Not much longer," Lance said, knowing they both knew he had no idea what he was talking about. But he wanted to give Keith something. "Get some sleep, Keith; you'll feel better in the morning."

"What about you?" Keith asked. "Weren't they supposed to bring in a bed for you or something?"

Lance shrugged. That wasn't anything Keith had to worry about. "They're probably busy; I can go find out in a while. Close your eyes."

"You sure?"

"This ain't my first rodeo," Lance tossed off, which caused Keith to open one eye, half his mouth lifting in a bemused sort of smile. "What? Did I get it wrong?" Because he actually had never used that expression before; he'd heard it from Coran.

"No, it just . . .sounds weird when you say it."

"Noted," Lance said, standing straight, checking the stats monitor and the growing pile of EKG data printing on Keith's other side. "Now go to sleep."

Lance eased himself into the chair, which was stiff and cold and too small for him to adjust much in. He pulled one leg up to his chest so he could rest his forehead against his knee, curling his arms around and securing himself by gripping his ankle on either side.

"Lance, you can't sleep like that," Keith pointed out.

"Wanna bet?" Lance murmured. He was tired enough that he thought he could sleep standing up in the corner. He wished he had a blanket, though. The ER was kept pretty cool most of the time, but after ten it seemed they turned the heat way down. He uncoiled himself to pick up his coat from the floor, beginning to shrug it on.

"You cold?" Keith asked him.

"I'm Cuban; I'm always cold," Lance returned, wishing Keith would just quit watching him and go to sleep already.

"Why don't you come here," Keith invited, no emotion at all in his voice. Lance paused putting his arms through his sleeves to see Keith scooting as close to the side of his bed as he could get, pressing himself against the guardrail and opening the quilt and hospital blanket up for Lance to lie down beside him.

"Because I don't know what the weight limit is on that bed, and there's no point both of us being uncomfortable," Lance argued, not making any attempt to get closer.

"Don't be stupid; there's room."

Lance tried to translate Keith's tone. Was he just trying to be nice, or did he actually want Lance in bed with him? They'd done it before. For a few minutes at the apartment where Keith was under a blanket and Lance was on top. That position had been at Keith's request too.

"There's a chair in the waiting room I was using before," Lance offered, almost as a test. "I can crash out there for a few hours. You don't have to make space for me."

Keith's face fell slightly, making Lance sure. This was more than a gesture of politeness. This was how Keith said he was sorry. This was how Keith could ask for something he might want without having to actually ask.

"You sure you're ok with this?" Lance asked, one more time, slowly pulling off his coat again.

"Would you hurry up? My arm is getting tired," Keith said. Lance kicked out of his shoes, leaving them beside his backpack. Trying not to think too much about what he was doing, he slipped under the familiar weight of his mother's quilt. Keith lifted his arm more, drawing back as though he were going to toss the corner of the blanket farther over Lance, but Lance grabbed it away from him before he could.

"Watch that IV," Lance cautioned him. "I didn't risk my career on it for you to rip it out now."

"Shit," Keith whispered, horrified at what he'd almost done, because he apparently hadn't even thought of that. He also probably hadn't meant for Lance to hear him, but their heads were pretty close together now. Lance tried to relax, but found it difficult. He lay rather stiffly on his back. Now that he was under the covers, he could feel Keith's unnatural heat beside him. This probably wasn't the best idea. If they had a different relationship, Lance would have slipped his hand beneath Keith, allowing him to pillow his head in the crook of his shoulder. He wasn't even sure if he could chill out enough to fall asleep now that he felt he had to pay attention to make sure he didn't get too close.

"Hey, Keith," he began, trying to think of another sleeping situation that would be more comfortable. For both of them.

"Don't make it weird," Keith ordered. Lance shut his mouth.

Taking turns making tiny, hesitant adjustments, they began to settle in. Lance inched himself onto his side, facing the sink and the door while Keith turned the opposite way toward his IV pole until their backs braced against each other. Lance drew his arms close to his chest, feeling Keith's breathing against his spine and also the edge of the bed close to his hip.

He lay there a long time, eyes open, watching as shadows went back and forth outside in the hallway. Keith's breaths lengthened and slowed as he drifted off, and he twitched a few times as his brain transitioned into sleep. It made Lance smile, comparing their current situation to last night, how drastic the differences were. How much he had learned in the past twenty-four hours, not just about Keith but also about Shiro, Coran, Angelique, and even Pidge and Hunk. And everything that had seemed to be crashing in on top of them suddenly moved too far away to even think about. Even the dawn was an eternity from now, from this moment, confined in a too-small hospital bed next to a fevered, unpredictable partner. As if there would never be a morning.

Keith began to whimper as he slept, murmuring unintelligibly though he stayed completely motionless. Lance flipped around rather clumsily, listening with a heavy heart as Keith unconsciously wept. He raised himself onto his elbow so he could lean over him, not surprised to see actual tears shine on Keith's face.

"Shh," Lance whispered, wanting to help but not wanting to wake him, putting a careful hand on his upturned shoulder. "Keith, it's ok."

You were going to leave him, Lance berated himself. You were going to let him suffer here with this by himself.

Lance sat up a little, curling protectively over Keith, gently pulling at him. Keith didn't resist at all, submitting loosely to where ever Lance moved him, twisting himself up and against Lance, the hand with the IV strapped to the wrist raising to hold onto Lance's shirt near his collarbone. Lance did his best to keep Keith's hospital gown straightened and covering him, wrapping it over him and then wrapping his arms around him too.

"_No llores_," Lance begged Keith to stop crying, to be still, to rest. He lifted a hand to gently press Keith's head against his chest, propriety be damned.

"I just want," Keith cried, but it didn't seem he would allow himself to give a voice to what he wanted, even in sleep. Lance held him tighter. He knew what he wanted. He wanted his life back, his health. He wanted to go home with Shiro, to have a home at all. He wanted to be wanted.

"I know," Lance assured.

"Lance," Keith whispered, relaxing against him.

"I'm here," Lance promised.

**Author's Note: Aww, Keith, darling, we're all here. Let us love you!**

**Also, who's ready to meet Krolia and get this sentence hearing over with? I know I am!**


	16. Long Distance

**Author's Note: So, I thought this chapter would cover the entirety of Sunday, but then Lance started talking to his mom and things got carried away in a not quite unexpected direction, but I went into more detail than I thought I would (I don't know why I keep being surprised by that). I like where it's going. I hope you do too. **

**Chapter Sixteen: Long Distance**

Keith slept soundly and well the rest of the night, and Lance knew that because he did _not_. He sacrificed his comfort for Keith's, straining to keep Keith securely in his arms and against his chest. He found that if he maintained this position that Keith would lie quietly, no crying, no uneasy murmuring. Lance watched Keith's racing heart slow to 78 beats per minute there in the dark, a physical indication that Lance was not wasting his efforts.

Abbie came to check on them several times throughout her shift. When she first caught them together in the bed, she paused at the door, her hand reaching toward her throat in surprise.

"Oh, I was supposed to bring you a cot!" She whispered in distress, ashamed at having forgotten. "Should I bring it now?"

"I think it's too late," Lance replied, not unkindly, gesturing at Keith. "We're fine."

But she had fussed enough that Lance compromised in allowing her to take down an extra pillow from an upper cabinet above the sink, propping it somewhere under his head and between where his shoulder was scrunched against the guardrail. Then she'd removed the empty iron IV bag, adjusted the gravity feed on the remaining solution, and promised to return in a while. Lance started telling time from Abbie's dedicated rounds. Each time her silhouette appeared in the doorway, Lance knew he'd given Keith another ninety minutes of peaceful rest.

Meanwhile, Lance was dying inside. Being so tall meant that he struggled for comfort in a regular bed on his own. Sharing a triage room hospital bed was a unique blend of torture. Keith kept his hand secured in Lance's shirt, his head resting on Lance's diaphragm. It would have been endearing if Lance had been able to get situated before Keith had decided he was never moving again, but he hadn't thought at the time that once Keith had settled it would be _forever_. Keith's body burned into Lance, miserably hot, and it felt as though each time Lance tried to shift, it irritated the bruised scrape all down his back.

Moving not only hurt his back, it also disturbed his patient, so Lance did his absolute best to keep his fidgeting to a minimum. He switched his neck side to side a lot as if that would do anything, did what he could about pressure points on his hips and tried not to think about how Keith's weight was crushing the ribs on his right side. He breathed the way Keith had done before – long draws in and then holding it as long as possible as he monitored what Keith's respiratory cycle was doing. And he waited and waited and waited for morning.

He couldn't say that he didn't sleep at all, though. He knew that he drifted off from time to time, but when he did sleep, it was never for very long. Somehow, the tiny cycles of rest made the night go on even longer. He was in the middle of one of these little naplets when his phone rang, dragging him awake.

The triage room hadn't changed; it was still as dark as it had been when they'd tried to go to sleep, and for a minute, Lance wasn't sure he'd heard anything real. When his phone buzzed a second time, and then a third, he began desperately attempting to free himself from under Keith. It wasn't as difficult as when he'd slipped out from under him on his couch yesterday, mostly because he did manage to get Keith to let go of his shirt this time without waking him or taking it off, but by the time he'd rolled himself over, off the bed and into a crouch on the floor, the phone was quiet again. Three rings. Sunday morning. Lance knew exactly who had called him.

His family didn't have a phone in the house, but the pastor of La Iglesia Santa Elvira allowed them to use the one in his office on Sundays before Mass. So the McClains would leave early, walk into the city, and the priest would unlock the office for them. Then they could dial Lance's number, let it ring three times as a signal, and hang up. He would then return the call so the church did not incur any ridiculous long-distance charges. The only reason Lance could call them back was because Pidge had given him an old phone still connected to her mom's international plan at a fee far less than if he'd tried to get one on his own. She'd said it didn't matter, but he demanded to pay his share every month. Before he'd met Pidge, his only correspondence with his family was through email and handwritten letters. Not all of his family members were always present every Sunday, but there had never been a week go by without those three rings at six in the morning.

Lance quickly put on his shoes, intending on taking his phone out so his conversation wouldn't wake Keith, but he'd forgotten to plug it in last night. His battery was at seven percent. He'd have to talk while attached to an outlet, doing his best to keep the volume down.

Keeping an eye on Keith, Lance dialed the familiar number, waiting for the phone connection to bridge the 1300 miles from Chicago to Cuba. He closed his eyes, picturing them all in the office. His brother Marco would be sitting on the priest's desk, trying but not necessarily succeeding in not touching anything. His wife, Isabel, would be standing, leaning between Marco's knees with baby Diego, who Lance had never seen in person, in her arms. Lance's eldest brother, Luis, would stand sheltering Lance's mom, holding her shoulders supportively in his hands, his two boys on either side of her, faces eagerly turned up as if that would help them hear better while their mom, Paloma, would be seated patient and graceful in the priest's chair. Lance's only living sister, Veronica, closest to him in age, would stand in a corner, arm across her body, one hand lifted and perpetually adjusting her glasses. And Lance's mother would stand, one hand gripped tight on the phone, the fingers of her other just barely brushing the top of the desk. She would stand with her eyes closed too, imagining Lance. Picturing where he was standing. Creating a vision from his words of his surroundings. Remembering his face.

"Lance!" The jubilant chorus of voices greeted him, and he breathed the word in as though it had been an embrace.

"Hi, guys," he returned, his lowered voice almost cut off from how much he loved them. His mother noticed immediately.

"Why are you whispering?" She asked. "We can barely hear you."

Lance debated on how to answer. His entire immediate family listening in had proved to be the most effective lie detector test Lance had ever taken. Tiny shifts in his voice that his brothers wouldn't notice would be picked up immediately by Veronica. He had yet to come up with a tone neutral enough that he could get something past them all. There was usually no point in trying to keep anything from them, and they'd already read into the pause.

"My friend's still sleeping," Lance let them know. "And I can't take the phone out. How are you all?"

"Friend?" Veronica double checked him. "In your room? What kind of a friend?"

"Did you have a girl stay overnight, Lance?" Marco teased.

"Lance, you didn't?" His mother, who had undoubtedly removed her hand from the table to clasp it over the cross pendant hanging from her neck. Lance wished he were physically with them so he could glare at Veronica and shove Marco off the desk. Were they trying to get him in trouble?

"No, Mom," Lance tried to keep his voice steady, mature, innocent. "I'm not even at the apartment. One of my friends had to be taken to the hospital yesterday, and I stayed with him." The fact that they had shared a bed was completely irrelevant.

"Oh, the poor thing," her whole demeanor flipped in an instant. "Is it your roommate? The one with the birthday coming up? The one I sent the package for?"

"Hunk? No," Lance answered, setting himself a mental note to ask about that package. It hadn't arrived yet. "I'm here with someone else; his name's Keith. I don't think I've ever mentioned him to you before." At least, not by name; Lance might have complained about him last week when he was still trying to pin him down for their assignment. Back when that was the biggest inconvenience in his life.

"Is he all right?"

"He will be," Lance said, as if he could will it to happen with only his own conviction. "But he does need rest, so I've got to stay quiet. So tell me what's been going on?"

A deluge followed, voices leap frogging over each other, a whole week's collection of news that they had been saving for him. Someone would start a story, then someone else would contradict a fact, or be too excited not to interrupt and tell their favorite part. The speech patterns wove around each other, with plenty of "guess whats" from Lance's little nephews. He sat hunched in the chair near the bed, elbows on his knees, resting his forehead on the quilt, eyes still closed as he translated the changes that were happening at home from the scattered sentences that came across to him. He learned that his favorite goat had just had twin babies. He answered English grammar questions and gave a list of tetanus symptoms to watch for after hearing that Luis's youngest son had cut his arm on a barbed wire fence crossing a field. He heard about the mango trees and how Mateo had taken the goat cart to the playa by himself for the first time. Lance now knew which of his neighbors had gotten married, who had been born and who had died. Businesses opening and closing. He heard about the weather there and tried to explain what lightning did in a snowstorm to people who had never seen snow in their lives, who couldn't fathom what negative temperatures felt like.

For the grand majority of these chats, Lance felt a closeness to them. Felt wrapped by their voices, warm in their love. But it seemed as though they couldn't let a week pass without some little dig, some verbal disappointment about where he was and how he could remain gone so far and so long. This week it took the form of a seemingly playful remark by Marco about how big baby Diego was getting and how it was a shame that Lance had never seen him. How Diego wouldn't recognize him when they were finally introduced. He heard the judgement when Luis pointed out that Mateo was much younger than Lance had been when he took the goat cart out onto the playa. The words were subtle enough that Lance wasn't sure if they were meant to hurt him or if it was his own guilt doing it on its own. Either way, he could hear it loud and clear. If you were only here – the family wouldn't be struggling as hard. If you hadn't gone away. If you.

Whether it was there or not, Lance's mother could always hear when it was getting to Lance. When his answers grew shorter as his heart and conscience weighed him into silence. At this point, she would send everyone out of the room so she could speak to him in private. This was both Lance's favorite and least favorite part of the call. As the youngest son, he always treasured any time he could have his mother all to himself, but on the other hand, he felt as though he had to be on his guard. That he couldn't tell her all he might want to tell her. Because he could never make it seem as though coming here had been a mistake. Her first reaction to any discomfort of his would be to tell him to come home, return to his family. He didn't want her to ask him to do that. Because he could neither do what she wanted and abandon all he'd built here, nor could he disappoint her in any way. Whatever he said would have to be both the truth and the most positive bits of his life. Most of the time, he didn't have a hard time doing that. But that had been before Keith had walked in and ruined everything.

"Now," Eva McClain invited in the quiet pause after Lance's other siblings left. "Tell me all your secrets." Lance smiled, sadly, wishing he could. He lifted his head, checking Keith who had begun to shift, almost waking, the hand that had been clinging to Lance's shirt pawing around the pillow, as if looking for him. Lance rested his hand over Keith's to reassure him, hoping he would stay asleep just a little longer.

"You go first," Lance prompted. "How are you?" His question had many levels, and he wanted his mother to answer them all. He knew it wasn't fair that he expected her to disclose things to him when he didn't always return the favor, but then again, he knew he could handle it.

"I'm the same," she replied, casually. "I live between the extremes of missing you and wanting you back and being so proud of you that I can't help but talk about you to strangers at the restaurant. I served a couple from, oh, what did they say? Minnesota? Is that close to where you are?"

"It's two states over," Lance said, pulling up his mental map of the US. He knew his mother would have no idea that those states were several hundred miles across. That all of Cuba could fit into Florida, the very tip of this country. "You could drive there," he tried to orient her a little more. He didn't know how long it would take to drive to Minnesota, nor how far of a drive it would be from the southernmost border to the northern one, but his answer was enough for his mother.

"I thought so," she preened, and Lance gave a huff of amusement, watching Keith slowly but undoubtedly waking up. His mother seemed to believe that the US was the sort of place where all Americans knew each other. "They'd heard of your school. They said it was a very good one."

"It is a good one." He felt he needed to confirm that for her. An MD from this place would allow him to give her a life he hadn't even known he wanted. He hadn't been capable of imagining it. But now that he lived here. Now that he'd seen it, he wanted to share it with her, show her this country – how big it was, how incredibly rich in just about everything. He wanted to tear her away from every hard thing and every bad memory. And he wanted to do it soon.

Keith was definitely awake now, groggy and puzzled, beginning to look around to orient himself. Lance kept hold of his hand, squeezing it a little and causing him to turn toward Lance, blinking up at him rather adorably.

"Hang on a second, Mom," Lance paused his conversation, switching from Spanish to English. "It's all right, Keith. We're still in the hospital. You can go back to sleep if you want."

Keith shook his head, twisting onto his back with remarkable grace for someone who'd just woken up attached to an IV and an EKG machine. He pulled his hand out of Lance's so he wouldn't be dragging Lance's arm across his torso as he moved. As Keith resettled himself in his new position reclined on his back, Lance took his hand again without thinking – the left one this time. Holding it and stroking his thumb along the top. Keith watched him, but he didn't move and he didn't speak.

"Do you need to go?" Eva asked, hope and sorrow drenching the question.

"No, not yet," Lance told her. "My friend just woke up. He can't understand what we're saying."

"Perhaps you should go then," Eva protested. "That would be rude to be on the phone with me when he can't even understand you."

"No, Mom," Lance denied, watching Keith close his eyes, not to sleep, just to listen, his hand putting encouraging pressure on Lance's. The corners of his mouth were slightly turned up, the softest smile Lance had ever seen. "I won't get to hear your voice again for a week! Besides, he doesn't mind. I think . . . I think he likes listening."

"Did you just meet him recently? Is that why you've never talked about him before?"

"You'll probably hear more about him from now on," Lance guessed, though he knew it was too early to really tell her things like that. But right now, sitting here holding hands together as he spoke with his mother, it just felt as though Keith had come into his life to stay. "Want to say hello to him?"

"Oh, I don't know, dear. My English."

Lance understood how self-conscious his mother was about speaking English. She did it when she had to at the restaurant, but there it was limited to a specific vocabulary surrounding the menu and it happened in person. Speaking over the phone presented its own challenges. But Lance wanted them to talk to each other. He wanted to share his mother with Keith, who had never had a real one. There was no comfort like Eva's voice, no matter what language she was speaking. It was unique in all the world.

"I'll help you," Lance encouraged, switching the call to speaker without waiting for her to consent. "You can speak whatever language you want. Just say hello to him, please; he's having the worst time right now and he doesn't have a family."

"What happened to his family?" Eva asked, and Lance heard the compassion in it. Lance looked at Keith, who still had his eyes softly closed even now that Eva could be heard plainly in the room. He knew that Keith couldn't understand them, but it still felt odd to say this out loud where he could hear.

"His mom left him when he was a baby," Lance informed her. "And his dad died when he was four."

"Oh, Lance, the poor boy!" Eva exclaimed, the shock and pity clear enough in her voice that it roused Keith. His face hardened into concern as he opened his eyes, removing his hand from Lance's as he weakly tried to sit up. He looked to Lance, trying to figure out what had happened in the last couple seconds, reading his expression to determine how much he should be worried about what Lance and Eva could be talking about. "How horrible! Who's been taking care of him?"

"Different people," Lance responded, calmly but hearing bitterness in his voice. Eva didn't know the half of it. "It's been me for the last couple days."

"Lance?" Keith whispered as Lance gently pressed against Keith's chest, pushing him back against the bed. "Ok?"

"Everything's fine," Lance answered. "I'm talking to my mom. Tell her hello."

Keith shrank away from the phone, confused and unsure about being thrown into a conversation like this.

"I don't know how," Keith excused himself, while Eva sat quietly on the other end of the line.

"She'll understand you; just speak slow," Lance instructed.

"Lance, are you still there?" Eva asked, in Spanish still.

"I'm here, Mom. Keith and I can both hear you now," Lance informed her, then looked at Keith, switching languages again. "Say hi."

"Um, _hola_," Keith said, almost too quietly, glaring at Lance for putting him into weird social situations before he was really awake. "_Señora_?" Lance felt his eyebrow lift without conscious effort. Keith's accent was atrocious, but the words were recognizable.

"Those are the only words I know," Keith answered the question that Lance hadn't asked out loud. He looked a little panicked.

"_Hola, cariño_," Lance's mother responded kindly. "I'm sorry _por _. . . ah . sorry. .Lance, _no puedo hacerlo. No sé que decir._"

"You always know what to say, and you can use whatever language you want," Lance reminded her, keeping his hand on Keith's chest. Keith looked afraid, like he'd done something wrong. "I can translate."

Eva muttered something that Lance actually couldn't translate because he couldn't hear. But he did hear her take a deep breath, and then they all had a strange, extremely short, conversation where one of them would say something and Lance would repeat it. Polite introductory phrases filtering through Lance as he tried to force a bond that was natural to him but completely alien to them.

"I'm so sorry you're in the hospital," Eva told Keith via Lance. "I hope you feel better soon."

"Thanks? I'll be fine. Lance is helping me."

"How did you meet Lance? Do you work together?"

"No, we take a class together. English."

"Ah, I see. Do you like it?"

"Um, it's ok?"

They went back and forth a couple more times. Talking about the blanket that Keith was using. Lance putting in a comment here and there when the conversation lagged too long.

"Lance, please, no more," Eva begged suddenly after a very long pause, and he caught himself just before translating it. "I just can't."

"What's wrong?" Lance asked her, oblivious. Keith tensed up at the tones he was hearing, but visibly relaxed as Lance turned a little away from him, as if making the conversation private again.

"It's too much. I know what you're trying to do; it's just like you, but it's not fair to ask this of either of us."

"But. . . Mom," Lance struggled, wondering how she knew what he was doing when he wasn't completely aware of it himself. "I just thought. . . I wanted to give him." He's been alone so long.

"I know, my love, but I'm your mother, not his. Speaking to him doesn't mean the same thing as me talking with you; we are strangers." What Eva was telling him made perfect sense, but that didn't mean he liked it. "Now, I know you're very busy. We will call you again next Sunday."

"What? Mom, wait. You don't have to go yet," Lance protested, wishing he'd never thought to introduce her to Keith if it meant that she was going to stop talking earlier than she ever had before.

"It's all right, _mijo_. I understand. You have things to do over there. It's important." She said she understood, but Lance could hear that she was disappointed and sad.

"I don't, though! We're just waiting for the doctor right now; it's still early here."

"I will pray for you, my love. I'll pray for you both."

That's what Eva said at the end of all their conversations. The way she said good-bye. Lance wasn't sure what he'd done; how something so innocent as an introduction could have hurt his mother's feelings to the point where she wanted to cut their conversation so short. And she did sound hurt.

"Mom?" Lance tried one last time to keep her here with him a little longer. Figure this out. But then he heard the click that meant she'd hung up. She had actually hung up. Lance clung to the phone in both hands, staring at it with his mouth open, as if on the verge of making one more plea to her. What just happened? He tried dialing the number again, but this time no one answered.

"Lance?" Keith said his name tentatively, moving uncomfortably on the bed, but Lance wasn't paying complete attention. He pulled the phone closer to his chest, holding it, feeling disconnected and empty. "Lance, is something wrong?"

"She had to go," Lance murmured, staring at the floor, overwhelmed with a strange kind of grief. A mourning for someone who wasn't actually lost, just missing. It was a feeling he knew well; it happened almost every time he'd finished speaking to his family, but Eva's abruptness sharpened it considerably. Lance squeezed his eyes shut to prevent any tears from falling, hating how often he felt like crying lately.

"Lance, seriously," Keith continued as Lance tried to gather his energy to take a little walk. If he was going to _feel_ this alone, then he wanted to actually _be_ alone. "Are you ok? Ugh, I can't . . . damn this stupid stuff! Lance, come here."

Lance sniffed without meaning to, risking a side glance at Keith who was straining against all the lines connecting him to machines on the opposite side of the bed, reaching for Lance, but not being able to get close enough to touch him.

"What?" He asked Keith, wondering what he needed, what he was trying to do.

"Put down the damn phone and get over here," Keith ordered, voice not quite as strong as his words. Lance let the phone drop gently onto his coat, still plugged in and charging. He didn't know why he was obeying Keith when he'd originally intended on leaving the room. Maybe because Keith made it sound so threatening.

"Do you need something?" Lance asked quietly, kind of hoping he did. Hoping that Keith wanted something that Lance would have to go out the door to get for him. Please send me on a mission, Keith. Give me something else to think about. Make me as busy as my mother seems to think I am.

"No, you do," Keith told him, a little bit frustrated, beckoning with his non-IV hand. "You are not making this easy."

"Maybe if I knew what you wanted," Lance suggested, watching Keith from the chair, feeling as fragile as a soap bubble. Now that his hands were free, he'd curled both arms around his ribs, holding himself tightly.

The phone started ringing again. Lance grabbed it from the floor, recognizing the country code, almost answering it directly before he remembered about the long-distance charges. He let the three rings complete, ignoring Keith's questions in the background about what he was doing staring at a ringing phone.

"Mom?" Lance asked, a little desperately, after he'd called back and someone picked up.

"What did you say to her?" It wasn't Eva. It was Luis.

"Nothing. Why? What's going on?" Lance asked, feeling extremely far away from them.

"She's sobbing in Veronica's skirt! What happened?"

"I don't know – she's what? Go get her; put her on," Lance demanded. Keith's hand appeared in his peripheral vision, still reaching for him as he sat there, furious and miserable, staring at the floor, at the rumpled pile of his coat and backpack. He needed to talk to her, needed to figure out what he'd done to make her so upset.

"I don't think so," Luis denied his request. "In fact, I don't know if it's a good idea that we keep doing this; Mom's always a mess after she talks to you." This was news to Lance. He'd thought that his mother enjoyed their private Sunday conversations. She'd seemed so excited about it when Lance wrote her with the plan and instructions on what to do.

"What are you talking about?" Lance challenged. "Just go get her; I need to ask her something."

"You've done enough already," Luis snapped at him, rather harshly. "She tries so hard to support this . . .this thing you're doing. The least you could do is respect her when she calls. She said you didn't have time for her – that you're getting too busy for us. What the hell is that about?"

"I am _not_ too busy; I'm right here! I'm begging you to let me talk to her!" Lance had to stand up now; he was too mad and Luis was too far away for Lance to actually get in his face. The only thing he could do was try and vent the energy, but Keith grabbed his wrist before he could start pacing, tethering him to the bedside. Lance forced himself not to rip his hand from Keith's fingers. He hadn't done anything wrong.

"Lance, what is it?" He heard Keith murmur, his voice also far away. Everyone seemed so distant from Lance right now. Like he was too far to do anything productive for anyone.

"Did you ever think about what you were doing?" Luis demanded. "Leaving us like you did? You know you're Mom's favorite – after losing Rachel, she can't stand thinking about anything happening to you. She's worried she's losing you, that you'll never come back home."

"Luis, please," Lance begged, hearing the tears in his voice before he realized his face was wet with them. "That's not true. Please let me talk to her." Keith was pulling on him; he also felt that only vaguely. His entire focus was the voice on the phone, the crushing distance.

Luis sighed, and Lance could feel his anger dissolving. "Lance, we miss you," he admitted.

"I didn't mean to hurt anyone," Lance defended himself. "Luis, let me apologize to Mom. Please. I can't go another week leaving it like this." Especially not right now. "You don't have to protect her from me. Come on."

"Veronica," Luis called, his mouth away from the phone receiver, and Lance dropped in an exhausted heap on Keith's bedside as he realized that his brother was going to do what he asked. "Lance wants to apologize."

Keith shifted as close as possible next to Lance, dragging all his cords and tubes with him, breathing hard at the effort. Lance sat with his head hanging, waiting for Veronica to bring Eva back into the room, grateful that Luis hadn't just hung up on him again.

"What is it, _mijo_?" Eva's sweet voice back again, but Lance could hear that Luis was right. She had been crying and was doing her best to hide it. Lance knew he wouldn't be able to hide either.

"Mom, I'm sorry," he sobbed remorsefully into the phone. He never wanted to be responsible for his mother's pain; he was devastated to learn that he hurt her every time they spoke to each other. He hadn't even known. "I'll never be too busy to talk to you. Don't ever think that."

"I don't want to bother you," she responded.

"You could never! Do you want me to come home?" He asked, surprising himself. He'd never been direct about that before, but if that's what it took, then that's what he would do. He would work in the orchard or in the tobacco fields; whatever she needed him to do.

"Darling, every day. I always want you to come home, but I know that what you're doing is the right thing for you, so it can't be about what I want."

"You know it's for you, right?" Lance checked, needing her to understand this. "I'm doing this for you – all of you. I'm going as fast as I can. Mom, if you only knew –" If you only knew what this country could be for us if I can only get through and finish what I started here.

"I do know that," Eva assured. "But I'm still your mother, and I still miss you. I guess I just wish that you missed us a little too."

"Mom, you have no idea," Lance gushed out the words in another sob. "I think about you all the time." He had never suspected that in trying to save her from any pain he experienced while away from them, he was actually making her think that he liked it better here, that he preferred it to what he'd had at home. Some things were better, but nothing could replace the security of being with them. "I'm going to take care of you. It's really hard, but it's going to be so worth it, Mom. You can't even imagine what I'm going to be able to do."

"I'm sure," Eva said, and Lance finally heard the smile in it. The pride.

"What do you need from me?" Lance asked her, willing to do anything to ease the separation for them. "Should I call more often? Write more? What can I do so you aren't crying after we talk to each other? I don't want that, Mom."

"I told Luis not to tell you."

"Well, he did, and I'm glad he did. So what can I do?"

"I don't think there is anything more you can do. You're already working hard."

"Send us pictures," Veronica suggested from the background. "We've kind of forgotten what you look like."

"Mom?" Lance checked.

"That . . would be lovely, yes," Eva agreed. Lance had yet to send them a picture, but he didn't know why not. It would be something Eva could hold, could hold in front of her eyes and clutch to her heart. He hadn't shown her the gothic castle-like campus that was the University of Chicago, the way it had looked covered in autumn. She had no idea what Pidge or Hunk looked like. The frozen lake. He should be sending them millions of pictures.

"And when you call, make sure that we have your full attention," Luis said, with just a hint of lecture in his voice. Lance looked down at Keith, feeling guilty. That's what had brought all this out into the open – forcing his mother to use her time to speak to a stranger when she had called to talk to him. Lance hadn't been thinking.

"So we are going to keep up with the calls?" Lance asked, making sure that Luis wasn't going to take this away from him.

"Of course," Eva responded readily, and Lance understood that she had never thought about discontinuing them, despite how hard they were for her. He knew that feeling. How he could want something so much even though it hurt afterward. "I look forward to this all week long."

"I do too," Lance agreed, wishing they could see him, see how he'd practically clawed himself out of bed and dropped to the floor to get to his phone this morning. He wished that they knew that he was going to walk four miles in the ice and snow to get his charger so he wouldn't miss this opportunity. "I love you." If only you knew how much.

"I love you too, _mijo_. I can't wait to see the photos."

"Are you ok now, Mom? No more crying?" Lance checked.

"I'll be fine. And you?"

"Sure, I'm –" but Lance paused, sensing Keith next to him, remembering what Luis had said. He wasn't helping them by keeping his struggles a secret. "I'm going through some hard things right now. I don't think we have time for me to explain them all, but I will tell you all about it next time. I promise. Nothing's wrong; I'm fine, but I learned some things yesterday and I'm sort of confused. I want some more time to think, but then I want your opinion."

"Of course!" Eva said, more brightly than Lance could remember in all the times they'd spoken since he'd arrived in the US. Because she still wants to be needed, he realized. "Let me help you."

"Thank you, Mom. I'll send you pictures of me in the snow in the next couple days, ok?"

"And photos of your friends?"

"Definitely. And we'll talk next Sunday."

"I'll pray for you."

There came a shuffling on the line. Lance pictured Veronica walking with Eva out of the room. Luis must not be finished with him yet; that was the only explanation Lance could think of for why the connection was still active.

"That's better," Luis acknowledged. "She's smiling at least."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" Lance accused.

"She asked me not to, of course. Didn't want to bother you. But it was so bad today I had to say something. Probably lit into you a little harder than I needed to, though."

"That's nothing new," Lance said before he thought too much about it. He heard Luis sigh again.

"Lance, I'm sorry. I'm just trying to keep us all together now that Dad's gone, you know?"

"You're doing a great job, Luis," Lance consoled him.

"Doesn't feel that way. Hey, listen, do you think you could ever come back for a visit sometime? How hard would that be to work out?"

"Good question?" It had been so difficult for Lance to get into the US that he was timid about ever leaving it again before he was done. Or ever if he could manage a green card. The paperwork and medical examinations had been ruthless for him to get a student visa. The flight had been paid for by a sponsorship connected with his scholarship grant. The process and expense seemed too daunting to even attempt a second time. "I'll ask my friend Pidge to help me figure out if it's possible."

"That'd be good. I know you're busy, but I think you should try." Lance knew that, but he wondered if a visit would somehow make it worse. Wouldn't it just hurt the entire time, knowing that every minute he was with them was one minute closer to when he would have to leave again? "Look, Lance - Mom won't tell you, and she'd kill me right now if she were here, but there's something else I think you should know."

"Luis?" Lance said his brother's name like a warning, but he wasn't sure what kind. What other secrets was his family keeping from him? "What is it?" Because it sounded serious.

"You remember before you left we all had to go in for that TB test?"

"Sure, they needed to clear the household before they'd let me leave the country. We all tested negative, so I got my visa."

"Mom didn't test negative – just latent."

"What?" Lance forced his brother to repeat what he'd just said. Because he remembered the questionnaire, the medical form. The consequential testing after he'd put down that there was a family history of the disease. He tried to remember what they said. He'd been cleared; he assumed that since he was allowed to go that everyone had returned a negative result.

"She didn't want to tell you."

"Why are you telling me now? Is she sick?" Lance asked, his mind switching into high gear to hear this. Because no, not now, not yet. He needed more time; he wasn't even close to the point where he could do anything.

"She's fine. Like I said, it's dormant, but I don't know what we're going to do if that changes."

"Is there anyone else?" Lance demanded, angry that Luis would keep something this big from him. How bad it could have been. "Luis?"

"No, Lance. I swear. Everyone else is clear. I've been meaning to tell you, but this was the first chance I've ever had to really speak to you alone."

"How long have you known?"

"Not very long. I promise. But Lance? None of the others know; Mom begged me not to say anything. It's our secret for now, ok? I just wanted you to know in case you need to come home quickly."

"Right. Thanks, Luis."

"See what it'll take to come back. I'll keep you informed. Whatever I know, you'll know."

"Ok," Lance responded, quietly, overwhelmed by this week's phone call. On top of everything else that was already going on. He really wished the biggest thing they had to talk about was the new baby goats and the lightning on the lake.

"And Lance? I'm sorry about what I said. I know what you're trying to do, and . . . I'm proud of you for getting so far. It's just weird having my baby brother so far away at college. You know you're the first one to ever do that."

"I know," Lance repeated, a strange sort of weak calm rendering him almost paralyzed.

"I don't want you to worry," Luis cautioned him, hearing what he'd done to Lance by giving him this information. "Like I said, it's latent. It's something we may never have to deal with."

But Lance didn't hear that part. He was already thinking ahead, thinking of what he would do if something happened to his mom. Thinking of how he could get her what she needed if it turned out that she did need anything. Tuberculosis infections were curable, but only with almost three years of consistent antibiotics. An expensive treatment that wasn't always available to the regular Cuban citizens. The McClains had already lost two family members to this disease because those treatments were so hard to get. Lance was not ready to lose anyone else.

Lance wasn't sure how much longer he spoke to his brother. He couldn't even recall when Luis hung up. He only noticed because Keith plucked the phone out of his stiff hands for him, dropping it once again onto the soft cushion of Lance's coat on the floor.

"Lance!" Keith grabbed onto his sleeve and shook him back into the present. "What the hell is going on?"

Lance could only shake his head, not sure where to start, not sure how much he wanted to share. It wasn't fair to unburden this onto Keith; he had his own problems.

"Is this what it's like every time you talk to them?" Keith demanded, unbalanced. "I mean, you're still crying."

"My brother just told me my mom has tuberculosis," Lance heard himself say, quietly, way too calmly, without even meaning to say anything. But it felt like he had to repeat it because it didn't feel real. Or maybe it felt too real.

"Oh. That's . . . is there a cure for that?" Keith asked, still uncertain. He was sitting up, but now that Lance turned to face him, he could tell that it was too much of an effort. Keith was trembling, blinking too much.

"Keith, I'm sorry," Lance apologized for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning. He was just letting everyone down today and the sun was barely up. "I'm not taking very good care of you, am I? Come on, lie back; you're shaking again." And his heartrate was back up to ninety-four.

"No, I'm ok," Keith insisted in continuing an obvious lie. "What about your mom though? Is that why you were yelling?"

"That's not why," Lance returned, still feeling spacey as he replayed the conversation over again. How could his mom think that he was getting too busy for her? Did she live in fear that one Sunday morning she would let his phone ring and he wouldn't respond? That he would forget about them in the thrill of his new college life? How? How could she ever think that? How could he prove to her it wasn't true?

He felt sudden, deep pain on his back and flinched away from it instinctively before realizing that it was Keith, awkwardly trying to comfort him by running his hand up and down Lance's spine, not knowing about the bruising. Keith immediately pulled his hand away at Lance's extreme reaction, his expression wounded as he folded his arms over his chest, turning his face to the wall.

"No touching, got it," Keith muttered, shaking his head. Lance didn't know he could feel any more miserable, but somehow seeing Keith misunderstand why he'd shied away from him sank his spirits even lower. Lance scooted closer so he could put a hand on Keith's chest, covering his heart. Keith rolled his eyes over, a defensive film of anger shining across them.

"You didn't do anything wrong," Lance told him, defeated, wishing he could communicate better. "It just . . it hurts."

"Hurts?" Keith repeated, then something clicked inside his head. He pushed himself upright again, leaning behind Lance and tugging at his shirt the way he'd tried to lift it yesterday when Hunk had asked about it. "Oh shit," Lance heard him hiss, and he gave up. He let his head fall forward into his hands, his elbows resting on his knees as he sat hunched over, allowing Keith to pull his shirt all the way up to his shoulders. "Lance, what did you do?"

"Tried to catch you when you passed out yesterday," Lance answered. "I kept you from cracking your head open, but we crashed into the coffee table. The corner got me on the way down. It looks worse than it is."

"How do you know?" Keith accused. "Your whole back is . . . it looks pretty awful."

"Better my back than your face," Lance returned. "You could have snapped your neck if you landed on it just right."

"Lance," Keith began, but didn't seem able to say anything else. Lance wriggled until his shirt fell back, covering the damage. He twisted toward Keith, tucking one of his legs, knee bent, up on the bed so he could sit more securely, holding tight to his ankle. Keith was now hunched forward, braced on one hand while the other rested against his chest.

"I'd do it again," Lance promised, not really knowing what to say.

"A couple more days with me and you'll be the one in the hospital," Keith muttered bitterly. Lance tried to smile, tried to make Keith's statement a joke instead of a comment of despair.

"Lobito," Lance started, desperately thinking of something else they could talk about that wouldn't be quite so heavy.

"Hunk's right," Keith cut him off, lifting his head with effort, a tiny smile quivering at the corners of his mouth as he met Lance's eyes. "You did get your accent back."

Just like the last time Lance tried to laugh about this, he ended up breaking down. He brought both hands up to cover his face, fire flickering into his lungs as he held his breath to keep quiet. He couldn't even hear it, hadn't noticed that he'd changed the way he spoke in automatic imitation of his childhood language.

He felt Keith shift, panting with exertion from trying to move a few inches closer. He felt fingers closing carefully in the fabric near his shoulders, gentle pulling that Lance submitted to. He leaned in to Keith, resting his chin over his shoulder, letting his hands fall loose into his lap. Keith's skin was hot, and for the first time Lance noticed the scent of the fever on him, a distinct musty sort of smell that accompanied illness. It reminded Lance that Keith was still sick, still struggling with incredible physical difficulty. Lance shouldn't be falling to pieces on him like this. Doctors are supposed to be in control.

"Am I hurting you?" Keith asked softly. Lance couldn't respond vocally. Instead, he slowly reached around Keith's waist, clasping his hands together at the small of Keith's back, on top of where his lumbar puncture scars were, clinging to him selfishly for support. He so wanted something to hold onto right now, and Keith was the only one here. "Is your mom going to be ok?"

"I don't know," Lance confessed. A full multi-year course of antibiotics for TB would cost anywhere from thirty-four to one hundred and ten thousand US dollars depending on how resistant to drugs the disease happened to be. Eva would be placed in a queue for treatment, and she would receive it if the government funding to the hospital didn't run out. Or if Lance could somehow manage to save up the money before Eva started showing symptoms. That would be the only way to guarantee that she would get all the medication she needed. And while Lance had been saving everything he could, his stash was growing much too slowly to be of any use.

"She sounded ok," Keith said, trying to be reassuring, still holding gently onto Lance. "Maybe it's not too bad?"

"Her infection is dormant," Lance explained, reluctantly pulling back to save Keith the effort of maintaining the position. Keith's expression resembled an abandoned wolf pup, indicating he hadn't been quite ready to let go, but Lance wanted to get his head down. "I want you to stop shaking," Lance said as he helped Keith lean back against the bed. "You need to rest a while."

"What does that mean?" Keith pressed, ignoring what Lance had just said but allowing Lance to force him down. "Dormant?"

Lance took a deep breath. He was going to talk about this, and he was going to do it like a professional. "It means the bacteria is present, but it's not causing any symptoms and it's not contagious right now. It also means that it could wake up at any time and turn into an active infection."

"But there's medicine for it now, right? People don't still die from this anymore, do they?"

"No, they do," Lance whispered, voice choking up. "My dad and my twin sister both died from it."

Keith grabbed on to Lance's hand. "Lance, I'm sorry."

"Do you remember your dad at all, Keith?" Lance asked, wanting to change the subject, even though his question was just shifting potential pain to someone else.

"Not really," Keith answered after a pause. They weren't looking at each other anymore; they were both looking at where Keith's hand covered Lance's. "I can't remember his face, but I have a little of what his voice sounded like. I remember his smell when I'd sit with him. He, uh, he was a firefighter, so he always sort of smelled like smoke and . . well, I always thought he smelled like dusty sunshine, but I know that doesn't make sense. But you know when you can see the dust in a sunbeam? If that had a smell – that was his smell. What about you? How old were you?"

"We lost Dad three years ago, so I have a lot of good memories," Lance said, grateful that he could still see his father's face, hear his words of advice, replay the days when he would dance with Eva in the yard.

"And your sister? Your twin?" The way Keith said the word twin reminded Lance of how special that had been to be part of a set. How sometimes it seemed the cells of his body remembered Rachel more than his mind could. He dreamed of her sometimes.

"She died when we were two," Lance heard his own voice from behind a fog of passing years, speaking of a pain that somehow belonged to another person. "I don't remember her at all, but I've seen a few pictures of us. Mom says if she dressed us the same, we could have passed for identical." Lance had no memory, but Eva told him that after Rachel was gone, he had cried for her for weeks, searching the house and the orchards, calling for her, asking for her, screaming for her. How every night for years, Eva would coax him into his own bed but by morning he would have slipped in with someone else. Whoever was sleepy enough to either not notice or not care that their little brother was crawling into bed with them. After Rachel disappeared, Lance could not tolerate being alone.

"I don't understand," Keith confessed. "How could that happen? I thought there was a cure for that now."

"There is," Lance said. "It just takes a long time. You have to take antibiotics for years, and if you stop, even a dose or two, it can make the bacteria even harder to get rid of. It's expensive, and so there just wasn't enough of the medication where we live. My family couldn't get it when they needed it. But that's not going to happen to my mom. I'll . .. figure it out. I'll work harder."

"Wow," Keith said suddenly, and Lance raised his gaze. "Congratulations."

"What?" Lance asked, puzzled.

"Your life is officially more complicated than mine."

"I –" Lance began to protest, but discovered he couldn't. There was no way to say anything that wouldn't somehow downplay their challenges.

"I get why you want to be a doctor now," Keith said, as if he were sorry for being flippant about Lance's difficulties. "You're going to be amazing at it, so I'm sure you'll be able to help your mom."

Lance heard himself choke, unexpectedly touched by what Keith was telling him. How Keith sounded as though he truly believed that Lance could do anything. Lance wasn't quite so sure, but he had to make it happen. There was no one else.

"And how are you doing?" Lance asked after swallowing, more than ready to talk about something else. "You're still shaking."

"I can't even tell," Keith replied, tired, not really wanting to talk about himself as usual.

"Does anything hurt?" Lance checked, wanting something to do, something to take his attention. All of it.

"I just feel heavy," Keith tried to explain. Lance nodded, understanding, pulling his quilt higher over Keith. All the movement from this morning had left it in a disheveled heap, almost falling off the side of the bed. Lance took his time adjusting it, brushing it smooth.

"That's the medication and the iron. It'll get better," he promised, meeting Keith's eyes, finding them full of pain and sympathy. Seeing in them a longing, a loneliness that he recognized. Something he'd seen in his own reflection. He let his hand rest on Keith's chest again, bowing his head. "For both of us."

"Lance?" Keith started, and Lance waited expectantly, ready for anything that Keith might need.

"Lobito?" Lance invited. What?

"Morning, boys," Shiro's voice at the door, breaking them from each other as he let himself in. Lance smiled one more time at Keith before turning to help Shiro whose hands were full of Keith's file, coffee, and fast food bags. "How's everyone?" Shiro asked, monitoring the atmosphere, noticing that he'd walked in on something.

Both Lance and Keith shrugged.

**Author's Note: Oh my goodness – so much sadness kids. Boys! Oh we have a long Sunday ahead of us. How are we doing? I know I took a lot of liberties with Lance's family, but we don't have a whole lot of information about them, and hey, this is my story now. And I have so many scenes I want to share with you. What are you looking forward to?**


	17. Circumstantial Evidence

**Author's Note: Ugh, hi everyone. Guess what? We're still in the hospital. This is officially longer than anything I've ever written and I just keep thinking of things I want to add (I did scratch one scene . . . still not sure about that, but it seemed. . . .superfluous.) But we are getting somewhere. And I'm still having fun. How about you? Still fun? Frustrating? **

**Chapter Seventeen: Circumstantial Evidence**

"Bad night?" Shiro questioned, looking back and forth between Keith and Lance, pausing just inside the door.

"No," Lance answered at the same time Keith said, "Bad morning." They looked at each other; Lance trying to beg without words for Keith not to say anything about the phone call. There wasn't anything that could be done about what he'd learned this morning, and Lance knew he only had enough energy to deal with one problem at a time. He was going to have to reschedule processing about his mom later. Something Dr. Delacroix had warned him would lead to his eventual nervous breakdown, but seriously? What was he supposed to do? His mom was over a thousand miles away and asymptomatic right now while Keith on the other hand . . . .

"What's that mean?" Shiro said, studying them, not liking the lack of information. "Keith, you all right? You're shaking – why is he shaking?" Shiro put the last question to Lance, turning toward him and handing him the cup carrier, then walking past to set down the file and the bags in the empty chair so his hands were free to grasp Keith's shoulders, trying to steady and support him.

The snarky, exhausted part of Lance wanted to answer this rudely, particularly because he never liked talking about patients or answering questions about them as if they weren't there. But Shiro looked almost as tired as Lance felt, tired, worried, and desperate. He handled Keith gently, brushing his hair away from his forehead so he could rest the back of his hand there, standing close and helpless. Keith closed his eyes, leaning against Shiro in grateful trust, obviously happy that he'd returned as he'd promised. Lance remembered what Shiro had walked into yesterday afternoon, how Keith had fainted after just seeing him for a few seconds, and he swallowed his sarcasm.

"Good question, but I'm not sure," Lance answered simply, trying to make it clear that he was including both of them in his answer. The shaking could be due to a number of things. Exertion from moving around so much this morning trying to comfort Lance. Keith's fever could be rising again, causing chills. Maybe it was low blood sugar from eating almost nothing the past two days. Actually, that one seemed the most likely. "But I bet some calories and rest would take care of it."

"Are you hungry, Keith?" Shiro asked, stepping back, switching the food to the bed and taking over the chair. Lance could smell it now, something in those bags was doused in grease and salt and Lance really, really wanted some. Keith looked like he wanted to rip the bags apart.

"Yeah," Keith said, sounding rather hopeless about it. Just because he was hungry didn't mean he could eat. Shiro started emptying the paper bags, removing items one by one and setting them in front of Keith.

"I wasn't sure, so I got a little of everything," Shiro explained, then suddenly remembered that Lance was still standing by the door with the coffee. "For you too," he invited. Lance slowly came closer, feeling like an outsider, but not as much as he had yesterday while watching them be together. Keith maneuvered himself cross-legged in the bed so Lance would have space to sit down at the foot of it. Yeah, Lance definitely felt more included today, less intrusive.

"I got you tea," Shiro half-apologized to Keith. "I didn't think caffeine would be so good for your heart right now." He handed over a cup from the carrier, which Keith accepted, holding it in both hands and staring at it with a concerned expression on his face.

"Let it cool and I think you can do it," Lance assured him, receiving a look of doubt. "Or maybe we could ice it?"

"Ice?" Shiro repeated, also looking to Keith. "Keith?"

But Keith had returned his focus to the cup, holding its warmth in both hands, breathing rather shallowly, dedicatedly not looking at anyone, not liking this much attention.

"Keith's mouth and throat are burned – fever blisters," Lance volunteered for him, not remembering if he'd already mentioned this before or not. A lot had happened; he couldn't keep track of which people had what information. "It'll be too painful to try and eat anything too hot, hard, or salty, or even to chew much probably."

This knowledge raised Shiro's eyebrows, and he redoubled his efforts to sort through what he'd brought, looking for something that would fit the parameters Lance had just set.

"It doesn't matter, Shiro," Keith dismissed, not wanting anyone to worry about him, not wanting Shiro upset that he had gone to the trouble of bringing food for nothing. "You guys go ahead and eat."

Still clutching the cup, almost tenderly, Keith leaned his head back, closing his eyes. Lance checked the stats on his oxygen saturation level, thinking it would likely do him some good to have the cannula replaced for a while. Lance felt the familiar weight of guilt, seeing how worn out Keith was from comforting Lance this morning, ashamed that he'd lost control of himself like that in front of him.

Meanwhile, Keith's answer wasn't good enough for Shiro, who had pulled a plastic cup full of yogurt and berries from the bag and was now carefully scraping the crunchy granola bits off the top of it.

"You've got to eat something, Keith," Shiro ordered, and Lance could hear the repetition in the phrase. This was not the first time Shiro had been forced to coax Keith into eating. He took the hot tea, replacing it with the yogurt cup. Keith glanced at Lance, as if asking for assistance, but Lance was back in full doctor mode now, which meant doing what Keith needed instead of what he might want.

"He's right," Lance betrayed him by siding with Shiro. "I don't have a problem spoon feeding you if I have to either." This was not as gentle as he wanted to be, especially after their morning, but he'd been with Keith long enough now to know that his pride would force him into action to prevent Lance from doing anything like that.

Keith huffed as expected, shaking his head, and then obediently tried to take small bites of the yogurt. As he did so, Lance inspected the other stuff, removing the egg from a biscuit sandwich and actually taking it to the sink to rinse the salt off it and cool it down.

"Are you kidding?" Keith scoffed when Lance brought it back to him, now slightly soggy, saltless, and cold.

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" Lance checked. "You need the protein, but if you'd rather, I can go get you a can of Ensure that they use for the feeding tubes and you can drink that. It tastes like chalk, but you could live off it for years." Keith glared, but Lance put the egg on a napkin anyway, setting it on the blanket next to Keith's side expectantly. "It's better than pickle juice," he said, with the tiniest tinge of warning in it. Keith sighed deeply, and Lance knew he'd gotten his point across.

"Can you just quit looking at me?" Keith requested, eyes downcast, as if he were unable to move if he had an audience for his meal. Lance saw Shiro duck his head to hide a smile, and he relaxed into the idea that if neither of them glanced at Keith, he would eat.

"Lance, here," Shiro drew his attention by handing him his own sandwich, voice full of understanding and gratitude. Lance returned to the bed, also sitting cross-legged, but turned away from Keith, more towards Shiro. Even though Lance hated acting as though patients weren't in the room, it seemed that for at least this part, Keith preferred it that way. "Help yourself; there's plenty," Shiro said, rubbing his robotic hand self-consciously against the back of his head. "I think I went a little overboard."

"I can pay you back for it," Lance suggested, but Shiro shook his head, insulted.

"After all you've done? The least I can do is feed you," Shiro denied, pulling a sandwich for himself out of the pile on the bed. "Has the doctor been in yet?"

"Haven't seen her," Lance answered between bites. He didn't often eat this kind of thing, but damn, it was delicious. As he ate, Lance indulged in surreptitiously watching Shiro since he wasn't allowed to look at Keith. His outfit was identical to yesterday, but somehow Lance could tell that Shiro had changed into a new black sweater and different jeans. He sat in the chair with a structured sort of grace, appearing both at ease and ready to leap up simultaneously, and Lance caught him giving Keith rapid sidelong looks to check on him every so often. He was worried, but trying not to let anyone see it. Lance knew that feeling well, but he wished he could keep as composed about it. Recently, Lance felt as though he were losing his grip every couple of minutes, and it was starting to annoy him.

Shiro held his food in his real hand, beginning to sift through Keith's file again, balancing it on his lap and turning the pages deftly with his robotic fingers. Lance forgot to be so guarded and flat out stared.

A balled-up napkin smacked against the side of Lance's face, almost startling him into dropping his second sandwich as he involuntarily brought up a hand for defense. Realizing what had hit him, Lance turned to Keith, who was watching him disapprovingly.

"Have some respect," Keith muttered at him, misunderstanding why Lance had been watching Shiro's right hand so closely. Shiro glanced up, noticing immediately that he'd missed something.

"Keith?" He said as a request for an explanation. Lance picked up the napkin missile, intending on tossing it right back. Keith shrugged, going back to his yogurt. "Lance?" Shiro switched his attention since Keith obviously wasn't going to give him anything. Lance hurled the napkin back at Keith, hitting him lightly on the chest, wanting to point out the double standard. If Keith didn't want anyone looking at him, how come it was ok for him to watch Lance eat?

"I have nothing but respect," Lance defended himself to Keith, though he was still embarrassed at being caught ogling like that. "It's just impressive, ok?"

"What?" Shiro began, but then he seemed to catch up with the whole thing. "Oh, you mean this." He wiggled his artificial fingers, and Lance couldn't help but be awestruck all over again. Such. Fluid. Natural. Movements.

"Close your mouth," Keith ordered, way more used to it than Lance was. Plus Keith probably didn't understand. Had probably never seen what regular prosthetics were like. How clumsy and stiff.

"Sorry," Lance apologized, to Shiro – not Keith. "I've never seen anything like that before. It's –" He paused, not sure what word he wanted to use that wouldn't sound weird. He decided not to pick one and ask a question instead. "Where did you get it?"

"That's classified," Shiro answered, again with the practiced clip to his tone.

"You didn't tell me that," Keith said, slightly offended. Shiro smiled.

"That's what classified means," he retorted teasingly, and Lance swallowed hard so he wouldn't burst out laughing. "It's a prototype," Shiro said to Lance. "That's all I can say, but you're right, you've never seen anything like it. . . yet. Hopefully, they'll be more available in the future."

"Does it have any limitations?" Lance asked, too intrigued not to pry just a little bit.

"What the –" Keith began, but Lance shushed him.

"You wanted us to ignore you, so fine, I'm ignoring you. Keep eating. I'm just . . . really curious about this. You don't have to answer," he added to Shiro in what he hoped would be a respectful tone.

"It's fine," Shiro granted. "Not sure what you mean by limitations."

"Well, like . . can you do buttons? Shoelaces? Tie a necktie? Type? Use a pen?" Lance cut himself off before his list got too long, trying to curb his enthusiasm.

"Took some practice, but yes, I can do all those things."

"Wow," Lance breathed, wondering how much of Shiro's capability came from the elegance of the design and what part was just because Shiro seemed to be one of those people who always made extremely difficult things appear easy. Like grabbing Keith off the floor, for example. Lance leaned toward Keith now. "Impressive," he repeated, drawing out the word unnecessarily long to make a point. Keith shook his head again.

"I agree," a female voice purred from the doorway, and all three of them jerked their attention that direction. Dr. Delacroix wore lavender scrubs today under her white lab coat, her multitudes of tiny braids hanging loose for the moment. She leaned against the doorframe, one hand in her pocket while the other held Keith's chart, all his stats from last night dutifully recorded onto it for her review by Abbie.

Lance scrambled to his feet, hoping he didn't have anything on his mouth. He could see Shiro's startled expression about his reaction, but he just didn't understand who this woman was and how much Lance wanted to impress her. He still didn't want to be an ER doctor, and he wasn't convinced that what Keith suspected about Angelique's plans for him could be true, but he still wanted her approval. Or at least not her disapproval.

"Morning, Dr. Delacroix," Lance greeted her, wondering what accent he was using at the moment then deciding it didn't actually matter provided he wasn't using hers. "Sleep well?" For a second, he thought he'd crossed a line, been too familiar with her as he watched her eyes tighten above the mask she wore. You never could tell with her.

"Better than you did, I imagine," Angelique answered, coming all the way into the room. "Did you sleep at all, Lance?"

"Sure," Lance said, looking down at the floor so she wouldn't see the lie on his face. Well, no, she'd already seen it; he just didn't want to discuss it in front of the others. To his relief, she walked right past him on her way to Keith.

"How about you, darling?" She spoke very differently to Keith, as she had yesterday, her voice warm and completely judgment-free. It was wasted on Keith, though, who shied slightly away from her, looking to Lance as if he could answer for him. Lance nodded toward the doctor encouragingly. Come on, Keith, she's not going to bite you. "You're looking better than when you came in. Sitting up, talking, eating, very good," Dr. Delacroix continued a visual assessment since Keith wasn't answering. "May I listen to your heart, please?"

She was already putting the stethoscope earbuds in, assuming the affirmative. Shiro took the almost empty yogurt container so Keith could sit up a little more, allowing Dr. Delacroix access to his chest and back. Lance watched closely, wishing Keith could trust Angelique as much as he did. Maybe he shouldn't have told him all that stuff about how Angelique made students cry, but he'd also told him about how good she was at her job. Couldn't Keith tell that she was being so gentle with him? Or maybe it had nothing to do with Angelique. Maybe it was just Keith. The way Shiro was also watching, like he suspected Keith to physically push Angelique off him any second, Lance figured that was it.

"Deep breaths, love," Angelique instructed, listening, shifting the stethoscope to various positions to hear different things. Lance couldn't tell what she thought about what she heard since the mask hid so much of her face.

"Ok," she said neutrally, pulling back. "There's definite improvement, but your heart's still beating rather fast, and your temperature keeps hovering between 102.9 and 103.3." She spoke as she walked around the bed, opening a drawer by the sink without even looking and pulling out a package. A nasal cannula. Like Lance had wanted to put on less than half an hour ago but hadn't dared. "Let's hook your oxygen back up." Skillfully, she unplugged from the wall the mask Keith had been using in the ambulance yesterday, the one that covered the entirety of his mouth and nose, and replaced it with the less intrusive apparatus, turning the oxygen level to three instead of fifteen. "There. That shouldn't get in your way too much. How does it feel, lamb?" Keith raised an eyebrow without answering. "I know," she acknowledged, but Lance guessed Keith was reacting more to being called a lamb than the actual question. He wondered what Keith would do if he ever found out the other baby animal themed nickname Lance had been calling him all this time.

Angelique gave Keith a reprieve from questions as she gathered the EKG printout, a significant stack by now, hours and hours of data. "I'll review this as quick as I can," she promised, and Lance wondered how many uninterrupted minutes she would have consecutively to study it. When you worked in the ER, things could change every second. "Did we ever figure out the question about insurance?"

"We did," Shiro answered. "And, unfortunately, that paperwork was not complete."

"So, no insurance at all? Medicaid? Nothing like that?" Dr. Delacroix double checked, though there wasn't a lot of ambiguity about what Shiro just said. Lance felt his shoulders stiffen at the tone. It wasn't going to be like that, was it? Here too?

"Seems not," Shiro responded, sounding frustrated.

"Ok," Angelique responded with an efficient little click of her tongue against the roof of her mouth, as if that answer meant nothing at all. Lance knew better, and it pissed him off. "Then I think that's all from me for now. Did you need anything, honey?" She asked one last question of Keith, though it seemed he was dead set about never speaking a word out loud to her.

"Can you do something for his back?" Keith asked in a rather short burst, surprising absolutely everyone in the room. He couldn't bring himself to look up from Lance's blanket, but his voice was clear. Dr. Delacroix's gold-tinged eyes flickered over to Lance.

"So it's like that, is it?" She said softly, almost to herself. Lance had no idea what she meant by that. From the look on his face, neither did Keith.

"Please?" Keith amended his request, raising his head. "It's a mess."

"I know, dear. I saw. How about you take care of him for me?" Dr. Delacroix said, reaching back into her pocket and pulling free a brand-new tube of antibiotic ointment. Lance felt his mouth drop open again, knowing that Angelique didn't just carry stuff like that around. It wasn't even from the hospital. She'd picked it up at some point, on her own, and now she held it out for Lance, who still stood awkwardly between the bed and the door. He reached out to take it from her, but she didn't let go right away, staring at him with her intense tiger eyes. "Since he doesn't seem to be able to take care of himself."

"I got it," Lance whispered to all she meant by that, causing her to tilt her head a fraction and relinquish the ointment into his fingers. Now with both her hands free, Angelique rebalanced the printout and Keith's chart, preparing to leave.

"Shiro?" Lance gave the pilot a split-second of warning before tossing the tube his direction, but he still caught it easily with his prosthetic hand without even appearing surprised. "Thanks; I'll be right back. Let me carry that for you, Dr. Delacroix?" The offer was part politeness and part a desire to speak with her outside of the room. She seemed to know exactly what Lance wanted, and she handed off the stack of paper readily, opening the door for him to leave ahead of her.

"Lance?" He heard Keith call to him on his way out, but he'd talk to him later. He needed to clear something with Angelique first. Except she cut him off before the door had even closed behind them.

"Wait," she ordered, gesturing with her arm where she wanted him to go. Her main office, where she'd taken Lance last night, was not located in the emergency room. Since it would take too much time for her to go back and forth, there was another, smaller office near the ambulance entrance for the ER doctor-on-call to use during their shifts. There was a computer there, several books, random storage supplies, and a desk for just the sort of data review that Angelique would be doing for Keith. Since it didn't belong to any one person, and ER doctors spent more time on their feet in patient rooms than anything else, there wasn't a whole lot to be said for the place except it was private.

"Just here will be fine," Dr. Delacroix instructed, clearing away a box of Manilla folders to make a spot for Keith's printout on the desk. "Thank you, Lance." She took a seat and began rifling through the sheets almost before Lance had removed his hands from them, scanning for abnormalities. Lance felt as though he were being deliberately ignored. It wasn't as if she didn't already know what he wanted to talk to her about.

"Does anything on that paper even matter at this point?" Lance finally spit out after waiting as long as he could for her to acknowledge that he was still standing there with her. She slowly pulled the mask down, revealing an expression that indicated she'd had enough from him already.

"Of course it does," she answered smoothly, unruffled, but her eyes had begun to heat up.

"I thought the ER was required to provide treatment regardless of whether or not a patient had insurance," Lance shot back. He may not have been there when Keith had transferred to the foster system. He hadn't been able to do anything to prevent Keith from being abused into his teenaged years, hadn't been there to speak for him during the trial, but he was here now and bound and determined that Keith not be written off again. Not without saying anything. At least trying.

"That's correct," Angelique agreed with him, but the edge in her voice meant that even though she was telling Lance he was right, she was about to educate him on why he was also wrong. "The ER is required to provide life-saving treatment to the point where a patient is stable regardless of that patient's ability to pay. After that, however-"

"So once he's not actually dying you kick him out, is that it?" Lance returned, disgusted. Not at her – just at the policy. He couldn't believe that it was going to be about money, again.

"Lance, listen to me –"

"No! He shouldn't leave! We don't know what his heart will do once he stops receiving the antiarrhythmic medication. He still has a fever; I don't think he can walk on his own yet. He can barely eat. Just because he's not in active heart failure doesn't mean he's stable." There was a tiny part of Lance that found it odd that he'd tried so hard to keep Keith out of the hospital, and now he was arguing to keep him in. But he didn't want to think about taking him home, watching as the medication wore off. What if he crashed again? Or – maybe Keith wouldn't come home with Lance at all. Maybe he'd go with Shiro and then Lance would never see him again.

Angelique leaned back in the old desk chair, keeping her delicate fingers wrapped around the printout, pulling it toward her. Her mouth tightened into a flat, frustrated line that accentuated her tone.

"Did you know that the words 'regardless of ability to pay' do not actually mean 'doesn't have to pay at all'?" She questioned him icily.

"I'm not in the finance program, Dr. Delacroix; I'm in the _medical_ program. I thought you were too." Why was it always about the cost and not the care?

Dr. Delacroix's mouth and hands twitched; she bowed her head as if praying for patience, and Lance wondered if she were reminding herself that Do No Harm had been part of her Hippocratic Oath.

"Lance," Angelique began, but he already knew she'd be telling him more of what he didn't want to hear.

"Heart patients like Keith are monitored for at least three days." Lance steamrolled over what she'd been about to say. He knew he wouldn't like it; thus, he didn't want to give her opportunity to say it. "If he had insurance, you would have admitted him already."

"Yes," Angelique sighed, and Lance lost a bit of momentum as it hit him that she might be just as frustrated about this as he was. "I would have admitted him last night."

"Then why aren't you going to admit him now?" Lance demanded. Keep him here, safe and protected, out of court.

"Because at some point in your medical career, Lance, you'll understand that it is about money. And it's just as much for Keith's sake as it is the hospital's."

"That makes no damn sense," Lance pouted. How could it be for Keith's sake?

"That's because you're not giving me a chance to explain," Angelique responded, making Lance feel whiny and childish. And mad. "If I admit him, who is going to pay for it, Lance? Keith can't. I don't think you can. But someone will have to, and it will take one or more forms. The hospital can raise treatment costs for everyone else to make up the difference. They can garnish Keith's wages for years. They can file a claim against him and damage his credit for a significant portion of his life. You see where I'm going with this. Discharging him as soon as possible is the only way to minimize the damage on both sides." Lance looked at the unreadable lines of the EKG printout, knowing he was going to lose this debate and hating it. "The hospital can't deny life-saving treatment, but they can discharge a patient who is no longer experiencing a medical emergency. I cannot keep Keith here because of a fever, even one as high as his, do you understand?"

Even though Lance technically did understand, he discovered that he couldn't say so. His fists were balled up at his sides, his entire body tight at the predicament. It hurt worse to know that it wasn't even unjust, though unmerciful. It hurt to hear that yet another system didn't care about Keith, as a person, no one thought about what this would mean for him, how he could suffer because of it.

"Lance, please look at me," Angelique requested, her tone not in the least bit softened, but Lance somehow heard a new gentleness in it anyway. He knew his eyes were wetter than he wanted her to see them, but he lifted his gaze to hers, shocked to find compassion on her face.

"I don't like it either, at least I know that he won't be without all medical care when he leaves," she said, trying to be encouraging. "It feels more like a transfer than an abandonment knowing that you'll be with him."

"He almost died in my living room," Lance reminded her, bitter and uncooperative. "And I thought you told me not to perform ahead of my classes so I don't know what you think I'll be able to do for him?"

"I'm delighted that you were listening, but I don't think you'll have to go to such extreme measures to keep Keith alive now that we're raising his iron levels and he's not so severely dehydrated. I'm confident that you'll be able to look after him as a friend would, no special training required, and from what I've observed of you two together, I think he would prefer you helping him to anyone else. You just remember the other things I told you about taking care of yourself, will you?"

"I will," Lance made the promise, but even he thought it sounded empty. "But are you sure there isn't anything more we could do to keep Keith here?" He was doing it again, talking to Angelique like they were partners, speaking to her with far less respect than she deserved. But when he looked at her, she didn't seem to have noticed, or at least she didn't mind. She looked as though she completely agreed with him, that she'd been desperately trying to figure some sort of alternative for Keith too.

"I'm going to take my time with this," Angelique went on, patting Keith's report. "I'm going to take as much time as possible, actually. I probably won't get to it until you've been here just about twenty-four hours. I'll be checking it thoroughly, and in the meantime, Keith will continue to receive pain medication and fluids. I'm going to taper off the antiarrhythmic gradually over the next eight hours so we'll at least get a hint of what might happen to him without it. Neither of us wants him to be in danger or in pain. I need you to believe that."

Lance felt his anger chip away as he realized that Dr. Delacroix really was on his side, that she was deliberately going to stall her assessment in order to give Keith more time. What she'd just said soothed Lance. She couldn't break hospital policy, but she could stretch it. He should have known that it wasn't her fault. She was first and foremost a doctor who cared about her patient. He'd been raging at the wrong person.

"Thank you," he whispered, dropping his gaze again, ashamed. It didn't change much about the situation, to be honest, but even just this much was more than Keith had been given before.

"Would you like to go back to your friend now, or is there something else you wanted to tell me?" Her face was calm and knowledgeable, ready, sitting there as though she had all day to talk to him, that nothing could be more important than what he might have to say. A bit of question circled into Lance about how some of the more sinister rumors about her had gotten started. He suddenly felt as though she didn't deserve them.

He almost took her up on the invitation. He had his mouth open, ready to tell her everything that had happened last night and this morning. All about Keith's unfair trial, all about Lance's family, the phone call, what he'd learned about his mother, ask for her advice on what he could do about it. But he caught himself before he unloaded onto her again. Despite how she made it seem, she had so much more going on today than being there for him. She wasn't his mother, his teacher, employer, mentor, or really anything except the ER doctor-on-call who happened to be on duty when Keith showed up yesterday. Lance didn't know why he even felt compelled to speak to her the way he did. Especially since he'd found it so hard to speak to her at all before. Before he knew she kept his coffee cup on her desk. Before he heard Coran say that she'd been watching him. Before she had confessed that she was going to do all she could, and possibly more than she should, regarding Keith.

"You can only carry so much, Lance," she prompted when he didn't answer her, as if she knew he was holding back.

"Haven't hit my limit yet," he responded, though there was no humor in his voice as he'd intended.

"That's what I'm afraid of," she said, standing up, looking as though she meant to walk past him to open the door for him to go. She paused on her way by, staring at him so hard that he could hardly stand it, her gaze actually feeling as though it did have a weight, giving him one last chance to be honest with her. He deliberately looked away.

"Go on," she finally dismissed, much to Lance's relief. "Keith needs you."

Lance nodded, taking this responsibility seriously, wishing that he could have done more to champion him. He turned to go, but then heard Angelique say one more thing in parting, one last sentence that he wasn't sure he was supposed to hear or not.

"And you need him."

Angelique Delacroix, Lance decided, was the most mysterious person. He couldn't really figure her out. He didn't know how she managed to be so fierce and so gentle at the same time. How she could be so strict about policy yet somehow still manipulate it. Obviously, she had discovered the balance in her soul that she told him he needed to find for himself. He wondered how she'd done it or if she had even struggled with it. He wondered if she'd even be able to tell him if he asked. He also wondered how whenever he spoke to her, she never gave him what he wanted, but he somehow felt more loyal to her after she'd talked to him. Definitely mysterious.

"There you are," Shiro sighed in relief when Lance let himself back into the triage room a few minutes later, all the fight taken out of him. "Whenever you leave with her, I always worry on whether you'll come back or not."

"What do you think she's going to do?" Lance asked, half smiling and half apprehensive, actually curious to hear. How did Dr. Delacroix come across to other people?

"I don't even know," Shiro replied, rather unsatisfactorily, as he beckoned Lance over to them. "Come on; let's get this medicine on your back like she said."

"That's all right," Lance began, not wanting Shiro or Keith to be responsible for that. His back was tender, but it wasn't that bad. The ointment was being overly cautious, and Lance wasn't sure he wanted anyone touching him.

"Lance, get over here," Keith snapped, causing Lance to stare at him. "I don't know how, but she'll know if we skip it and you know _you're_ the only one who's going to get in trouble about it, so let's get it over with already."

Lance convinced himself in the next three seconds as he went to sit on Keith's bed that he was cooperating only so Keith wouldn't get all worked up about it, but part of him was moved that Keith had thought to ask Angelique about his wound at all, that he'd been thinking so much about him. He knew it wasn't really appropriate, given their situation, so he tried not to let himself be too pleased about it.

"Take off your shirt," Keith demanded gruffly, making it clear that he would be the one applying the antibiotic, taking Angelique's instructions that he take care of Lance very seriously. Lance hesitated again, not really wanting to do that. He'd been vulnerable enough already this morning. Keith wasn't having it. "Lance, I'm sitting here two shoelaces away from being completely naked, so you don't get to be worried about taking off your damn _shirt_. Let's go." 

Lance watched Shiro struggle with his face, not wanting to upset Lance by laughing about what was going on in front of him. To hide his amusement, Shiro decided to continue talking about Dr. Delacroix.

"You two seem to have a . . .rather unusual working relationship. You and the doctor," Shiro mused, keeping his eyes carefully away from where Lance was pulling his shirt over his head, too tired to fight about it. Keith put both hands on either side of the worst part of the scrape, and Lance had to hold back a groan. The heat of Keith's palms was surprisingly soothing, though Lance felt guilty to enjoy something like that. "Is she always so cold to you?"

"Lance spilled coffee on her," Keith volunteered as he took his time studying Lance's back. He hadn't even started putting the ointment on. Lance kept his gaze on his lap, feeling as though all his control over this conversation had been stripped off him just like his shirt. He heard Shiro chuckle softly.

"Here, Keith, it's open," Shiro said, and Lance could see him pass Keith the tube of medicine out of the corner of his eye. "She doesn't seem to be the type to hold a grudge about something like that," he continued, talking to himself now.

"And she's testing him," Keith went on. "She wants him to be her ER apprentice or something."

"She does not," Lance protested, unwilling to let this go any further. Why couldn't Keith let that go?

"No, I think Keith might be right," Shiro agreed. "She does act like she's holding you to a high standard. She must see a lot of potential in you."

"Well, it doesn't matter. I'm not interested in the ER," Lance closed the topic, shuddering as Keith began smearing antibiotic over the broken places in his skin. He heard himself involuntarily grunt.

"Sorry," Keith apologized for hurting him. "I can't believe a _coffee table_ did this kind of damage."

"It was more the weight, speed, and angle that we fell on it," Lance responded automatically, almost as though he were speaking with Pidge at home. He curled his back, leaving his arms in his sleeves so he'd be ready to throw his shirt on again the second Keith finished, though he actually was becoming less and less in a hurry about it the longer Keith kept his hands on him, the heat in the touch relaxing all his muscles. After a little while, Lance noticed Keith's hands slow, resting against him for longer and longer stretches. He was getting tired. "That's probably good for now," Lance said, tugging his shirt on and turning to consider Keith behind him.

"Sure?" Keith slurred, exhausted, slumping back against the reclined mattress, his eyes clouded and heavy. Lance smiled kindly at him.

"Yeah, Lobito. Thanks for the help, but I think you should try and get some sleep now. Are you still comfortable? Nothing hurts?" At least he wasn't shaking anymore.

"What are you going to do?" Keith asked, not liking the idea of nodding off again while Lance and Shiro were still awake. Though from the looks of it, he probably wouldn't be able to help it.

"Homework," Lance suggested. "You may not be going to English tomorrow, but I probably am."

"Oh," Keith responded, putting a little energy into sounding surprised. "Right."

"Put your head down," Lance encouraged. Enjoy the pain medication while you've got it, he added sadly in his head, wishing there was some way that Keith could stay here until his fever broke. Who knew how much longer that would take? Keith submitted easily, closing his eyes.

"Shiro?" Lance questioned quietly after they'd both been silent long enough that Lance was certain Keith was asleep. "Can I ask what happened with the insurance? You sound like Keith was supposed to have some kind of coverage." Who dropped a ball on this? Who had made it so Keith wouldn't be able to get the treatment he should?

Lance was still sitting on Keith's bed, though he'd made room for Keith to stretch out. However, it seemed that Keith never slept extended at all. He curled while he rested. Not quite as tightly as when he'd been in pain, but still a defensive little knot snuggled close against Lance's hip. Lance absentmindedly rested his hand on Keith's ankle, watching him sleep, worried about him in several different ways.

He heard Shiro's hesitation in answering this, and Lance knew it was a personal question. Another thing that was none of his business. But he also knew that Shiro was going to tell him, that there was some invisible disclosure agreement between them. A trust.

"He is supposed to have coverage," Shiro admitted, sitting in the chair, also watching Keith. "Kasey had the documents all ready, but Keith never turned up to sign them."

"Part of the exit interview?" Lance guessed.

"That's right," Shiro confirmed, sounding disappointedly sad again. Lance was about to follow up with a question about what an exit interview was, but the words must have been too much on his face because Shiro went on without him having to say them. "When someone ages out of the foster system, like Keith did when he turned eighteen last October, there's an exit interview that goes over the changes. What support will stop and what will stay in place and for how long. Basically, everything ends when kids become legal adults, but Keith would have received Medicaid coverage until he turned twenty-five or until he found employment that would provide coverage for him instead. There's paperwork, but without Keith's signature, it's worthless."

"Where was he? Why did he miss the interview?" Lance asked, though he could probably guess what had happened.

"I don't know," Shiro said, but Lance could hear that he had his opinions. "I lost track of Keith after I asked to be transferred as his case worker. He disappeared from the group home, quit answering phone calls. He turned up once a month, never the same day or time, just long enough to get his stipend funds from Kasey at the office and do a really quick check in so we didn't have to send the police out looking for him, but that's about it. He avoided me. Kasey said he'd leave messages for him every few days to let him know a bit of what was going on, but that's it."

"Shiro," Lance began, intending on asking why he'd wanted to be transferred. It made no sense. Now that he'd seen them together, seen how much they loved and respected each other, seen how much Keith depended on Shiro, Lance just couldn't figure out why Shiro would do something like that.

"I'm not going to tell you before I tell Keith," Shiro answered again before Lance could even ask. "No offense, but that really is personal."

"Of course," Lance agreed, knowing he was asking too much to begin with. Anything that Shiro answered was a favor, not a right.

"You'll probably be there when I tell him anyway," Shiro followed up, his voice taking on a slightly lighter tone. "Seeing as you're becoming inseparable."

"We'll see if he still feels that way when his fever breaks," Lance said dismissively, because he knew first hand that being sick made people more emotional and clingy. He'd shown up in Keith's life during one of his loneliest, most vulnerable moments, so it wasn't surprising Keith had grabbed on to him. He knew better than to expect Keith's feelings about their friendship to remain the same once he recovered, though. It might even embarrass him to see Lance afterward, to be reminded of that vulnerability every time he saw him. He could want Lance to disappear. Or the court could force them apart. "He may never want to see me again."

"I doubt it. Once Keith's made up his mind, it's pretty much set forever. You should have seen him while you were out of the room. You would have thought you'd left for a three-year space mission without saying good-bye." That made Lance smile, and he patted Keith's leg as he slept, feeling genuine affection for him.

"He didn't really like it when you left yesterday either," Lance offered. "And I wasn't gone _that_ long."

"What did you and the doctor talk about? Did she give you any more information about Keith's condition?"

Lance shook his head, growing serious as he remembered his discussion with Dr. Delacroix outside the room. "Shiro, were you able to get the court to postpone the verdict reading tomorrow? They're not going to make Keith show up to court when he's this sick, right?"

"They don't really care much about that," Shiro revealed carefully, watching Lance as he spoke as if he knew it would make him furious. He was right, of course, but Lance was also sitting very close to Keith and wanted him to continue to rest, so he kept himself still. "If he's still here in the hospital, then yes, I'll provide proof of the stay and they'll reschedule the verdict. But if Keith's discharged before tomorrow at ten, he'll have to show up – sick or not."

"That's awful," Lance said softly, once again hating people he didn't even know.

"But I thought you said that patients like Keith were normally admitted for three days," Shiro clarified. "So it's likely we'll get the extension and we won't have to worry about that part at least. I can submit the request tomorrow when the office opens."

"I guess I should have said patients with insurance are normally admitted for three days," Lance clipped bitterly. "Unless Dr. Delacroix finds something really terrible in that dataset of Keith's heart, she can only keep him here for twenty-four hours. He'll be discharged a little after four this afternoon."

"What? Really?" Shiro asked, surprised.

"Looks like the hospital and the court have something in common. Neither of them cares that Keith is sick."

Shiro was staring at Keith now, a whole new worry creasing his forehead. Lance could actually see him planning for this unexpected scenario, how he was going to support Keith from one kind of hell into another. Lance had innocently tricked him into thinking he had more time to prepare for it. He'd innocently believed that the hospital would act in the patient's best interest.

"Shiro?" Lance called him back from wherever he'd mentally gone. "They can't really send him to prison?" He thought back to the tiny room he'd found Keith in. The cell. Keith alone and sick on the bed. Keith couldn't go back to that.

"If I hadn't seen it happen already, I would have agreed with that," Shiro replied, his voice far away. "The Hunts can be incredibly persuasive, and they have all the resources."

"Can . . . Can I look at the file?" Lance requested, holding out a hand for the paperwork that Keith had hidden in his backpack. That seemed like such a long time ago now when Keith hadn't wanted him to see it. Back when he thought he could keep something like this a secret.

"Guess it won't hurt now," Shiro agreed, passing it over to him.

Lance pressed closer against Keith's legs, leaning into him slightly as he opened the file carefully on his lap, making sure that none of the loose papers inside slid out onto the floor. It was hard to tell where to start. He saw copies of the official charges, notes from the defense that he guessed the woman named Krolia had written across some of the pages. He paused to consider her handwriting; she seemed to favor all capital letters and exclamation points. And bold words like: fabricated, inconclusive, circumstantial, lies, privilege. Lance decided he liked her.

"Krolia seems . . passionate," Lance murmured as he flipped through the documents, seeing over and over where her red pen had scratched out and rewritten the trial as she thought it should have gone, smiling at some of the more colorful language.

"I haven't heard back from her yet," Shiro said, his voice balanced so Lance couldn't really tell his opinion of Keith's lawyer. "I don't even know if she's received my messages updating her about where Keith is. I couldn't find a cell number, so I had to leave them at her office phone. The weekend is really messing with efficient communication."

Lance returned to the papers; he didn't know what to think about what Shiro had just said, so his mind conveniently skipped over it. He was skimming the details of the original incident now. What the Hunts said about what happened. What Keith said. The testament of the girl that Keith rescued. Lance stared at her name – it was certainly different. He'd never heard a name like that before. He moved on to the pictures.

Most of them were from the first trial, the one for assault when Keith was sixteen. Photos of the victim – David – Lance remembered Shiro saying his name was David. There were pictures of his injuries. Looks like Keith had given both Lance and David matching bruises under their eyes. David, of course, was much worse. Keith had lacerated his lips, knocked out a tooth, actually broken one of his cheekbones, his jaw, and his nose. There were bruises along his throat that indicated Keith had tried to strangle him. Lance could only study them for a few seconds each before he had to turn them over. He didn't like seeing what Keith could be capable of doing to another human being, even if he might have deserved it. Under the photos of the beating was David's death certificate and the autopsy report.

"Ruptured cerebral aneurysm," Lance read quietly from the line of print indicating the cause of death. "Wait. What kind?"

He flipped through a couple more pages, finally finding the photos he suddenly wanted very much to see. There were MRI, MRA, and CT scans of David's postmortem brain, dark patches indicating the rupture, the spread of the blood. Lance read the report, how David woke up with a headache on a Monday morning six weeks ago. Texts to his friends indicated he suspected he was suffering a hangover, a souvenir of his weekend activities. He told them he'd feel better after lunch. His mother found him unresponsive in bed that evening.

"This can't be right," Lance whispered, continuing to read, looking back every few seconds at the scans. He started searching for any sort of medical representation at the trial. Hadn't anyone thought to ask an actual doctor about this? Lance read that the Hunts were convinced that David's aneurysm was a direct result of Keith's attack, that Keith had slammed the back of his skull onto the cement. Traumatic subarachnoid hemorrhage. But the force required to do something like that . . . was probably more than sixteen-year-old Keith could have managed. And that wasn't the term listed on the death certificate. There was a definite difference between the two kinds of bleeding. Right? It wasn't clear. Lance sifted through the papers faster, looking for any sort of medical history on David before Keith touched him. Had anyone else in his family suffered an aneurysm? Did he have high blood pressure? Lance already knew he drank; did he also smoke?

"Lance?" Shiro broke into the frenzy of his thoughts, mildly inquisitive but with a hint of concern in the name.

"Keith is not responsible for this," Lance said, louder, definitive, looking up to glare at Shiro, not because he was angry with him but because he was the only one in the room that Lance could share his anger and confusion with.

"What do you mean?" Shiro asked, resigned.

"If Keith had hit him with a _car_ maybe we could say this was his fault, but with his _bare hands _over a year afterward? I don't think it's possible. Oh my _God_; the way you were both talking like there was no doubt at all. This is completely different."

"Can you slow down a little? How can you tell that it wasn't Keith's fault?" Shiro's words were no longer mild; they'd gained intensity, but he still enunciated with a specific grounding clearness. Lance suspected he was starting to get overexcited about this again.

"I . . well, I guess I can't say for sure, but if I can't know from these reports that it wasn't – they sure as hell can't say for sure that it was. Where's the rest of the documents?"

"There aren't any. Whatever I have is in that file," Shiro responded, leaning in, looking down at the papers as though he hadn't checked them before. Like he was trying to read whatever Lance had seen. "What do you think is missing?"

"A lot," Lance hissed. "Where is David's medical history? The notes from the hospital aren't here; I only see the police report. How many checkups did David have in the interim between when Keith hit him and his death? What was his quality of life during that time? Because it seemed pretty normal if he was partying with his friends on the weekends."

"You think his death is unrelated to what Keith did to him?" Shiro checked.

"I think it's completely impossible to _prove_ that it was Keith's fault, and that's all we really need, right?" Lance was talking over his shoulder now, on his way to the hall, in search of Dr. Delacroix, moving quickly even though rushing wasn't going to get him anywhere.

"I don't know. Where are you going?" Shiro asked, watching as Lance opened the door, Keith's file in his hand.

"To get an expert's opinion," Lance called, headed out.

He spotted Angelique's braids at the nurse's station, where she was speaking with the staff there, her back toward him. From the phrases he could hear as he approached, Lance gathered that the ER wasn't too busy at the moment. There were advantages to having the entire city snowed in for the weekend.

"Dr. Delacroix?" Lance broke in to the gathering, certain that whatever they were discussing was nowhere near as important as the questions he had for her. Angelique turned with feline fluidity, her hand coming to rest on one hip. "Can I talk to you?"

"That depends on what you'd like to talk about," Angelique warned him. She was not interested in any more discussion about ethics and insurance, though as she studied his face, she softened, recognizing Lance's distress. "Is it Keith?"

"No, well, yes, but he's ok. He's sleeping. Can you take a look at these with me?" Lance opened the file, pulling free the MRA images of the bloodied brain. Angelique took hold of Lance's wrist instead of the papers, steadying him and twisting a little to get a better look.

"I don't really have time to help you with your homework, Lance," she chided, exhaling now that she knew there wasn't an emergency.

"It's not homework," Lance pressed. "It's way more important. Please?"

"Where did you get these?" Angelique asked, nodding toward the papers. Lance shook his head. He didn't want to tell her that, at least not yet. Not before she gave him her completely uninformed, unbiased opinion on what she was seeing in the scans. She locked eyes with Lance, making assumptions about what was happening here. There was something new in her face, a hesitant sort of pride.

"I'll tell you after you give me a diagnosis on what this is," Lance bargained.

The nurses were moving off now, repelled by the intensity of the situation, no longer wanting to be involved. Angelique removed the papers from Lance's hand, holding them up to her face in silent agreement to Lance's request.

"There's no diagnosis necessary," she told him. "With this kind of bleeding, I don't think the patient survived."

"You're right, but what caused the rupture? What sort is it?"

"It's hard to determine that from a scan. I can tell you this is a saccular aneurysm, sometimes called a berry aneurysm. It's the most common kind. This one is obviously very large. Was it causing symptoms before it burst, do you know?"

"I don't, but I don't think so. The patient woke up with a headache and thought it was a hangover. By evening, he was dead."

"That's sad," Angelique mused, and Lance stopped himself from telling her exactly how it wasn't all that sad. "It must have been awful for whoever found him, but no, I can't tell what caused the rupture from looking at this. It could have been genetic, or you said he thought he had a hangover – alcohol use can sometimes weaken the artery linings, making them more susceptible to bleed. Smoking too since it's linked to high blood pressure."

"What about trauma?" Lance guided her, feeling more confident since she hadn't come up with that one on her own. It meant it was one of the least likely culprits.

"Hmm, possibly? But no, I doubt it."

"Why? What makes you say that?"

Angelique looked up from the photos to stare at Lance, the desperation of his questions triggering her suspicion.

"Lance, exactly what am I looking at here?"

"Can you answer my question first?"

She squared her shoulders, then set the pages on the nurses' desk so she could be free to point. "In almost all cases of traumatic aneurysm, there is a skull base fracture present. I don't see one here, or evidence that there ever was one. Why would there be suspicion of trauma anyway? Did the patient fall before complaining of head pain?" 

"I don't know. S-someone beat him up over a year before this happened, though. Could the events be related?" This question caused Angelique to turn all the pages face down on the desk, removing her hands and folding them securely under her arms. As though she had made a mistake in touching them in the first place and wanted to wipe them clean.

"Lance, are these evidence documents?"

"Remember when I told you yesterday that Keith was on trial?" Lance began, very cautiously. He didn't like how Angelique was talking right now. She sounded furious.

"The police officer who showed up with him was kind of a giveaway that something was going on," Angelique shot back, her lips pursed. "But I think you neglected to mention that he was on trial for killing someone."

"He _didn't_!" Lance insisted, then cringed as Angelique's hand snaked out and grabbed him behind his neck, her finger and thumb squeezing along either side of his spinal column. If she put any more pressure, Lance knew his knees would buckle.

"Keep your voice down," Angelique hissed. Lance braced himself against the desk in case she decided she wanted to crumple him to the floor. He curled over submissively, staring at the upside-down pages. "You're getting in over your head, Lance. How many times do I have to say to look out for yourself?"

"I'm doing the right thing," Lance insisted. "I can't let them put him in prison."

"If he's so innocent, then why was he beating someone up in the first place?" Angelique whispered, so close to Lance's ear that he could smell her shampoo. "Judging from these photos and your face, this seems to be a habit."

"I already explained my face," Lance dismissed. "And he beat up this son of a bitch because he was trying to stop him from kidnapping a girl. It's _wrong_ what they're trying to do to him, and if there is any way I can prove it, then I'm going to try."

He felt Angelique's fingers relax on his neck. In another moment, her hands rested alongside his as she also leaned over the desk. He turned his head apprehensively to find her staring at him.

"Is this all you have?" She asked, her voice surprisingly rough.

"Yes. Is it enough?" Was she going to help him?

"I'm not sure. I need more time to look."

"Does that mean you'll help?" Lance asked. He took the papers, replacing them into the file, closing it, and holding it out to her hesitantly.

"You have absolutely no idea how to act in your best interests, do you?" She asked him, still staring at him, though they were both standing straight once more. "You have no self-preservation instincts at all." But Lance did not understand what she meant. He wasn't on trial. Nothing horrible could happen to him if Keith went to jail, though he didn't think he could live with himself if that happened.

"This isn't about me," Lance tried to explain. This was about Keith. This was about someone looking at the facts instead of making assumptions about him. Angelique reached forward, and Lance thought that she was going to take the folder. Instead, she put her hand on his shoulder. She had to reach up to do it; he was several inches taller than she was.

"That makes it even worse," she whispered. He leaned over her, wanting her to explain. Wanting to emphasize again to her that he was just doing what was decent. What was just.

"Draft me a statement," she demanded, regaining her composure. "I make no promises."

"Thank you, Dr. Delacroix!" Lance breathed his relief.

"You better be worth all this trouble, Mr. McClain."

"It's _not_ for me," he repeated, not understanding.

"Oh no, trust me. I'm _only_ doing this because of you."

"What?"

"Go on. I hope you know what you're doing."

**Author's Note: Do you guys have any idea how much research I put into this thing? I think I spent two days figuring out all there was to know about aneurysms. It's been awesome. I just want to be as medically accurate as possible, and legally accurate, and . . . well, I'm going to screw up, but hopefully you'll forgive me.**

**Does anyone like Angelique a little more than they thought they would or is that just me too? Also, who is excited to meet Krolia? (Not next chapter – but the one after that, I think.) First Lance has to convince a few more people that Keith is innocent . . . probably starting with Keith.**

**Let me know what you if you have a minute. I always love feedback. Is there something you'd like to see more of? Less of? Want me to hurry it up a little? Let's chat.**


	18. Against Medical Advice

**Author's Note: Thank you so much. All of you. For reading and writing to me. For geeking out over this story. I really appreciate it. Let's jump right in, shall we?**

**Chapter Eighteen: Against Medical Advice**

"She's going to help us," Lance triumphed as he returned to Keith's room. Shiro had done some cleaning while he'd been away. The food wrappers and napkins were gathered and disposed of; Lance's coat draped over the back of the chair instead of lying in a heap on the floor, and his backpack tucked up against the bed, out of danger of being stepped on or tripped over. Lance smiled as he noticed the differences, his respect for Shiro raising another notch. It seemed they had another thing in common; they couldn't just sit still and watch Keith sleep.

"Help us what exactly?" Shiro questioned, not wanting to kill Lance's sudden good mood, but he was definitely confused about it.

"Dr. Delacroix asked me to draft a statement. She's going to sign on as a medical witness for Keith."

"Oh, Lance," Shiro slumped, and this time he really was starting to damage Lance's spirits. No, this was a good thing. Lance was going to secure a statement from one of the most respected trauma doctors in the city, possibly the state, and she was going to put in writing her testimony – either that David's aneurysm occurred outside of anything Keith had done, or that it was impossible to determine what had caused it. Both scenarios in Keith's favor. What could be wrong with that?

Shiro considered him carefully, standing near the door with Keith's file, and his face softened. His expression of concerned incredulity shifted to his gentle smile, and he shrugged off whatever he'd been about to say. "That's great," he finished, and Lance nodded with certainty. That was a better attitude, even though Lance knew that Shiro was only going along with it to humor him. He would see. This was going to make all the difference.

As Keith slept, Lance threw himself into preparing the statement. He flipped the notebook from his backpack to a clean page then plopped himself right on the triage room floor, spreading David's photos in a semi-circle around him, staring at them from different angles, forcing the day nurse, Crystal, to step over them when she came in to replace Keith's IV bag and check his vitals. She hadn't been there when Lance had approached the nurses' station earlier, so she had no idea what he was doing, but she had the professionalism to not mention it at all. She did offer to bring them more coffee.

Shiro watched him from the chair, sometimes asking questions about what Lance could see in the scans, sometimes being overcome by what they actually depicted and needing to look away for a while. He asked Lance if he was all right continually, gaining in frequency as the morning dragged on. He made several phone calls, speaking in such low, smooth tones that even if Lance had been giving him his full attention he probably wouldn't have been able to understand what he was saying. Lance had to admit the rumble of Shiro's voice in the background was quite relaxing, a steady cadence blurring through his mind as he tried to focus on the scans. Despite his initial enthusiasm, it was getting harder to pay attention, to organize his thoughts enough to make a cohesive argument. His long night, and the night before that, was starting to weigh on him. He pressed his hands against his face, shook his shoulders, and kept working.

Shiro called him away for a break together to drink the coffee that Crystal brought and to finish off the breakfast sandwiches around lunchtime. Shiro hadn't been kidding when he said he'd gone overboard. Lance suspected he'd walked in and asked for two of everything. They saved one for Keith, just in case. Twice, Shiro tapped Lance on the arm, gently reminding him to eat as Lance kept zoning out, staring at the photos on the floor but not actually seeing them. The triage room grew increasingly fuzzy, and Lance slowed down in his work as he became unsure as to how he was going to get his point across, as he noticed he kept repeating the same not-quite-there statements. He just couldn't pinpoint exactly how to prove Keith's innocence, and it was exhausting and frustrating him.

It didn't help that, as usual, Keith did not rest quietly. Sometimes, his voice rose so clear that Lance was certain he'd woken up. Shiro stayed near his side, speaking to him, comforting him, allowing Lance to remain on the floor with his report. Keith didn't say much, or at least not much that made sense. He moaned wordlessly. He called their names in that heartbreaking tone that meant he thought he was being abandoned. He pleaded not to go back to jail. He apologized for nameless sins. At one point, he cried so hard about Lance's twin sister that Lance had to get up to put a stop to it before it broke him.

"Shh," Lance begged, stroking the side of Keith's face. "That's not your fault, Lobito. That happened a long time ago. _Descansa_."

"Who's he talking about?" Shiro asked, standing supportively next to Lance, watching him trying to soothe Keith, curious as to why this particular thing had pulled Lance from the floor in such a hurry. "Someone real?"

"My twin, but she's gone," Lance answered, rubbing calming circles over Keith's chest. "We were talking about her this morning; I guess it got stuck in his head. Keith, come on, buddy – you didn't hurt her. _Basta_."

"Lance," Shiro began, the sympathy thick in his voice. Combined with Keith was almost too much; Lance didn't want to listen to either one of them right now.

"I'm all right," Lance protested, though not very convincingly. He didn't know how to explain that Keith's crying somehow hurt worse than what he was crying about, but it _was_ bothering him. He felt like lying his head on Keith's chest and sobbing with him even though that was a waste of time. However, he probably wouldn't have much of a choice about it if Keith didn't stop soon. "Keith," he pleaded, hearing the initial break in his voice. "It's ok. Please."

"Ok, Lance, take a break," Shiro insisted, shouldering between them, forcing Lance away from the bedside. "This is getting to you, and I know you're exhausted. Do you want me to take you home for a while so you can rest?"

"No, one of us needs to be here," Lance shook his head stubbornly, monitoring Keith's face as he also turned his head from side to side. "He can't wake up alone, and I'm not done yet with the statement. I'll just – I'll take a quick walk around until he switches to a different horror channel."

"Lance," Shiro said, and Lance knew he'd gone too far with that one. But it'd just been going on so long. How did Keith even have the energy to put into this while he was supposedly sleeping?

"You said he's always been like this?" Lance asked as he cleaned up the mess of documents from the floor. He didn't want them disturbed while he was out of the room. "Even when he's not sick he does this?" Because wow. But even as he said it, Lance knew that Keith could rest quietly. It was possible for him to be still, to actually rest. He'd done it last night, curled against Lance's chest. He hadn't moved or made any sound for hours.

"Not every night," Shiro responded, defensive about Keith. "But like I told you before, trauma has to be processed at some point. Keith won't allow himself to talk about things that bother him, but obviously that doesn't make them go away." So they came out during his unguarded moments, just bigger, harsher. "Or make them easier to listen to."

Keith continued to apologize for Rachel's death, and Lance stood with his arms full of papers, looking at him. He was still curled on the bed, fists against his chest, eyes squeezed shut, suffering.

"Go on, Lance," Shiro prompted. "And . . . I'm sorry about your sister."

"We were two," Lance dismissed. His heart ached for other reasons. He struggled to tear his eyes away from Keith. Perhaps he shouldn't leave. Perhaps he should fold himself against Keith again, see if that would quiet him as it had last night. "I don't remember her. Shiro, maybe I should -"

"I've got him," Shiro said, firmly, then he turned toward Keith, tugging at the clenched fists, somehow shutting Lance out before he'd even left the room. "Take a break, Lance." Lance closed his mouth and walked backward out into the hallway, resting his forehead against the door after he pulled it closed, clutching Keith's file under his arm, dazed. He wasn't sad about Rachel; he had discovered a long time ago that he could no longer summon much grief for her loss. There was no memory; therefore, there could be no real pain. What made him sad was that Keith had decided to pick that burden up for him, a hurt that Lance couldn't force himself to feel, but Keith had not only assimilated it, he'd made himself responsible for it. How many times had he done that? How many things did he blame himself for that he had nothing to do with? Like Rachel. Like David.

And Shiro. Lance liked him, respected him, but maybe he'd thought too soon that he was included in the special tightness that Shiro shared with Keith. Lance had almost forgotten that Shiro had been with Keith for years, that they were practically family. Of course, Shiro could handle Keith right now, quiet him down, help him relax. He didn't need Lance's help; he'd just made that extremely clear. Lance shouldn't really think that he was all that special, that he had any more right to be next to Keith than Shiro did. In all honesty, he had less.

"Lance, what is it? What's wrong?" The questions whispered close to his ear, and a gentle hand rested on his shoulder as he stood there thinking, fingers still loose around the doorknob. Lance could smell the increasingly familiar sharp scent of tea tree oil shampoo and knew that Dr. Delacroix was standing next to him. He didn't bother opening his eyes. He wondered if he would ever not be tired again. He wondered how it was that time moved so quickly and yet so impossibly slowly. He'd been in that triage room for days, except it hadn't even been one yet. He'd been trying to help Keith for his entire life, but not even a weekend had passed.

"Lance!" Angelique snapped, but not in anger. She shook his shoulder, trying a more invasive method to get him to answer her. "What happened?"

"Keith talks in his sleep," he murmured, still facing the door with his eyes closed, giving the simplest of facts, trying to pretend that they weren't slicing into him. "It's hard to listen to sometimes, so Shiro sent me out for a while."

"And how long has it been since you slept?" She asked, and he shrugged. It still wasn't about him. He could sleep later; he had things to do. She sighed, and Lance could tell she was frustrated with him. But he couldn't remember a time when she wasn't frustrated with him, so he wasn't about to summon any energy to worry about it now. "_Que vais-je faire de toi_?" She quipped to herself. Ok, so that was new. Lance decided that pushing Angelique into exasperated French was at least worth the effort of squinting at her, not removing his forehead from the door. He didn't know French, but it was similar enough to what he did know that he thought he got the gist.

"Help me keep Keith out of prison," he answered her softly. If she wanted to know what she was supposed to do with him, that was really the best and only thing he could think of.

"Not sure either of us have the power to do that," she informed him as she physically pried him from the door, turning him toward her, reaching up to place the back of her hand against his forehead. It took all he had not to irritably brush her off him.

"I'm fine," he repeated, standing straighter, forcing himself to actually look at her. "There's nothing wrong with me." Keith was the one in trouble, the one suffering. Lance didn't understand why Angelique would bother with him when the person who actually could use her help was crying in his sleep on the other side of the door.

"On the contrary," she returned, voice resolved, but then her expression crumbled as she decided to let it go and change the subject. "Come with me, please."

Lance rubbed his eyes and decided not to fight about it. Like yesterday, he blindly submitted to wherever Angelique wanted to take him. She had a hold on his wrist, pulling him through the emergency hallway to the small working office where they'd argued over insurance a few hours ago.

"Let's take a look at those scans again while I have a minute," she offered, closing the door and gesturing toward a chair. Lance had almost forgotten that he had taken the file out with him, but it was still there, tucked under his arm. He pulled it out rather numbly, setting it on the desk in front of her as she moved around him to take the other seat. "Did you have a chance to get started on that draft?"

"Sort of," Lance said, suddenly remembering every poorly-made argument in the thing. He'd worked so hard on it, and he'd been sure of every word he'd written down until this moment when she would be looking at it. Now everything seemed rough and inexperienced. Not even good enough to be called a draft.

"If I may?" Dr. Delacroix asked politely, so Lance also passed over the notebook, opened to where he'd started writing down his thoughts on the scans and Keith's lack of responsibility for the damage. Odd that the conviction he'd felt on the floor had turned into an anxious sort of embarrassment. But when had his best effort ever been good enough for Dr. Delacroix? Maybe she was right, maybe he was out of his league on this. But that's why he'd asked for her help in the first place.

Not wanting to watch her read his thoughts, and also because his head felt so heavy, Lance folded his arms on the desk in front of him and hid his face in the folds, waiting for Dr. Delacroix's assessment and instruction. It was extremely quiet here in this office, far from the main entrance and the nurses' station. Angelique herself sat with an almost unnatural stillness, reading, studying. Lance could hear the tick of a clock on the wall. Every so often there would be a soft whisper of a page being turned over. There were no windows, no pictures on the walls. Nothing but a weighted silence. 

No, not quite silence. There was a deepness too. A lull, like a voice, humming in the background without ever focusing into discernable words. Lance hummed a little in response, acknowledging that he heard it, but couldn't bring himself to fully answer. If there was a question at all. There was the softness of his sleeve against his cheek, the curve of his spine over the desk, the clock. Time moving without him, running slow and yet still running out. Keith. His mom.

Lance hadn't noticed falling asleep until he was waking up again to the sensation of someone shaking his shoulder. He groaned, coming back slowly to consciousness. His entire body felt stiff from how he sat hunched against the desk. How long had he been here?

He shook off the touch, unlocking his spine and sitting up, opening his eyes to see Angelique pulling backward.

"Dr. Delacroix?" The last he'd seen her, she'd been sitting across from him, scanning his documents without expression. Now she stood next to him, closer to the door, watching him rather tenderly. "What time is it? Is Keith ok?"

"You two," she murmured, a hesitant smile just touching her lips. "That's almost exactly what he said when he woke up."

"You shouldn't have let me fall asleep," Lance accused groggily.

"You needed it," Angelique defended. "Though it would have been better if you'd been lying down. When you go home tonight, could you please make sure you get a decent amount of rest? Or Keith won't be the only one with a weakened immune system."

"You said he was awake? How long?" Keith was awake and Lance hadn't been there for it. Hadn't even been in the room. How would Keith take that? Somehow it didn't help that Shiro had probably been with him, sitting in that chair, forever still and patient and watchful, untouched by fatigue, completely in control of his emotions. It didn't help knowing that Shiro had done it first and for longer either. Lance began rearranging his body to stand up.

"He's only been awake a few minutes. That's why I came to get you. There's no need to rush; he understands where you are. Here, this is for you." She held out the familiar file and Lance's notebook. Lance took them with both hands, flipping the folder open automatically. All the papers were present, neatly clipped together now in some sort of pattern that must have made sense to Dr. Delacroix. In addition, his notes were there and an official looking document printed on hospital letterhead.

"You made an excellent start," Angelique complimented him as he scanned the statement. "You really are quite advanced." Lance barely registered the compliment as he was reading. He was surprised to recognize several phrases, whole paragraphs that he'd scribbled onto the notebook, now copied verbatim but organized and flowing into a full cohesive report. It basically read that the cause of the rupture in David's brain was impossible to state for certain; however, the likelihood that it had anything to do with Keith's attack was statistically and medically unlikely. It acknowledged the tragic loss of life, but denied that the evidence was strong enough to make that loss a punishable crime. Angelique had signed it.

"Thank you so much, Dr. Delacroix," Lance exhaled in awed gratitude. "This is perfect."

"I'm not sure what help it will be," Angelique began, then continued almost apologetically when she saw Lance's face. "But it seems important to you."

"If you only knew," Lance whispered, closing the folder and hugging it to his chest since it wouldn't be at all appropriate to hug Dr. Delacroix. She stood with her arms crossed, watching him, her face a complicated disarrangement. As though she couldn't decide herself what she was feeling.

"Lance?" She started to ask a question, but just as quickly changed her mind.

"He's worth it," Lance answered her anyway, willing to challenge anyone on that point. Worth the lack of sleep, the worry, worth the bruises, the time and effort. Because no one should be so surprised by kindness. "He shouldn't have had to go to trial in the first place."

"I agree with you," Angelique said, and Lance didn't know he needed her to say that until the moment it left her mouth. "On this point, at least." Lance wondered about the parts she didn't agree with, but suspected they had something to do with the amount of damage Keith had managed to inflict during the first attack, the one that had started everything. The matching bruises on David's and Lance's faces. But Lance didn't want to think too hard about that, or about what Pidge had warned him about Keith's lack of control.

"How is he doing?" Lance asked instead, wanting to go see him. He felt like he'd been away too long, that he needed to go to him right now. Make sure that Keith understood that it wasn't only Shiro who cared about him. That Lance hadn't actually even wanted to leave.

Dr. Delacroix's features settled into the slightly exasperated expression that indicated he wasn't asking the right questions, that he wasn't following procedure as well as he should. It wasn't exactly disappointment; it was somewhere between sad and annoyed. But again, as before, Angelique masked it quickly with a professional detachment. Lance could almost hear her telling herself that whatever she was thinking, or wanted to ask, was none of her business. She regained her composure in an instant, though she allowed herself a shake of her head.

"Let's go see," she said.

Lance nodded in agreement, following her once more across the emergency room floor to the triage room that had been Keith's entire world for the last day. When Lance and Angelique came in, Shiro's and Keith's heads lifted together. Shiro had pulled the chair close to the bedside. It looked as though they'd been interrupted during an intense discussion. Lance lowered the file to his side when he saw Keith's eyes fix on it. After the lengths Keith had gone to in order to keep that file a secret, it was probably a shock to discover that Lance had it anyway, and Lance didn't want him too angry about it before he had a chance to explain what he'd done.

"Hi guys," Lance greeted, clearing the sleep from his throat. "Sorry I took so long."

"Are you ok?" Keith questioned him from the bed, melting Lance's insides a little at the earnestness in his face and voice as he asked. Damn it, Keith; worry about yourself.

"That's my line," Lance retorted, not answering. He hadn't paid enough attention to himself to know if he was ok. This was one of the longest days he could remember, and so much had happened. They weren't even finished yet.

Lance invited himself to Keith's side, handing the file back to Shiro who secured it immediately out of sight. He wanted to take Keith's hand, as he would have if Keith had still been sleeping, but somehow seeing him with Shiro reminded Lance that they were still practically strangers. That they were not all that close, despite how he might feel about it.

"Now that we're all here," Dr. Delacroix interrupted the strange pause that had settled between Keith, Lance, and Shiro, pulling all their eyes toward her. "I'd like to go over the EKG report with you." Lance prepared to bite his tongue. He was not going to argue with Dr. Delacroix in front of Keith, not when she'd just handed him the piece of paper that could save Keith from going to jail. Besides, it wasn't her fault that the hospital policy was set up the way it was. She had to follow the rules. Lance would have to learn how to do it at some point too.

Keith took hold of Lance's sleeve, causing him to turn toward him. Keith looked worried, and Lance realized that it wasn't because of anything Dr. Delacroix had said, it was because Lance was suddenly tense. He forced himself to lean against the bed, relax a little.

"For the most part, it's encouraging," Angelique began. "I've been gradually lowering your dose of antiarrhythmic medication all day, and your heart rate has remained generally steady. It seems as though your iron and hydration levels will be the most important factors in keeping stress off your heart. I'll be sending you home with a prescription for Tenormin and a recommendation for an iron supplement."

"We're leaving today? Lance mentioned that there was a possibility Keith would be admitted for several days of monitoring?" Shiro inserted into the conversation hopefully, as if there were any chance that Keith could remain under the hospital's care. Lance admired his attempt, though Angelique narrowed her eyes at him for forcing her to have to address this outright.

"I did consider that," Angelique admitted, and Keith's hand tightened on Lance's sleeve. He probably didn't want to stay here that long, even if it would be better for him. "But given the circumstances, we will be sending Keith home today."

She wouldn't do that unless she was sure, Lance reminded himself. She said she would check the report carefully; if there had been anything concerning in it, she would have admitted Keith regardless of whether or not he had insurance. Lance had to believe that even though it still felt wrong.

"Home?" Keith whispered, as if the word meant nothing to him. He turned his face toward Shiro, and Lance's skin chilled. Home to Keith did not mean that abandoned apartment, the one that apparently wasn't even his. No, when Keith thought of home, he thought of Shiro's place, eating ramen on the couch. Though it still seemed that there was some hesitation about it. Keith hadn't been with Shiro for a long time, and whatever had happened between them had not been resolved yet. Keith still felt he was completely homeless, despite being sandwiched between Lance and Shiro. Despite how both of them would be more than willing to take him.

"The hide-a-bed at my place is open," Shiro told him kindly. "You can come home with me, Keith."

Lance felt like something was slipping away from him, that Keith was slipping away. That he'd wasted a chance. Shiro and Keith were staring at each other, having a silent discussion, so Lance shot a look toward Dr. Delacroix, as if she could or would do anything to stop this. Because he wasn't ready for Keith to go with Shiro. He wasn't ready for Keith to leave his life so soon. For some reason, he thought he'd be with Keith from now on. But it wasn't like he could say so. It wasn't like it should matter to him.

But then Keith turned to look at Lance, his expression torn, as though he were waiting for Lance to say something. Lance wasn't sure what that could be; if he wasn't going to be at the hospital, Shiro's place was obviously better. Keith had stayed with Shiro before, and now it would be completely legal. And it sounded like Shiro had an empty bed for Keith, whereas Lance could only give up his own or offer his pathetically short couch. So then why did it look as though Keith wanted to go with him? Or maybe Lance just wanted him to enough that he was seeing things that weren't actually there.

"Forgive me," Dr. Delacroix broke in with the phrase she used when she actually felt that no forgiveness should be necessary. "I was under the impression that Lance and Keith were roommates and he lived on campus? Is that not correct?"

"Keith's been staying with me since he got sick, but he doesn't live there," Lance clarified for her, though he felt certain that he'd explained how he'd found Keith. She already knew that they didn't live together, so what was she doing?

"Does it matter?" Shiro asked, just as confused as Lance.

"Perhaps not," Dr. Delacroix allowed, though her tone betrayed her words. "But I am discharging Keith with reservations. I thought he would be staying close to the hospital. Can I ask how far away you would be taking him?"

"I live in McKinley Park," Shiro answered, his shoulders squared, almost challenging. Lance saw in his body the memory of having to fight for Keith, how he was preparing to do that again. "It's a twenty-minute drive, a little more with the roads like they are now."

"Hmm," Angelique hummed disapprovingly, but maybe that was a good thing. Maybe this would tip her into allowing Keith to stay. Maybe Shiro wouldn't be taking him away from Lance. Then they could delay the court hearing too.

"What do you mean reservations?" Shiro prodded, reining in any accusation in his voice. "If that's the case, shouldn't he stay here?"

"Unfortunately, hospital policy will not allow him to stay as he is technically stable," Dr. Delacroix defended her decision. "However, his temperature remains elevated, and he is still exhibiting flu symptoms, including a faster-than-normal heart rate. Since these symptoms contributed to the reason Keith was brought in, there is a slight chance he might need to return. Possibly very quickly."

"That . . that could happen again?" Shiro asked, sounding amazed at the possibility and that the doctor would allow Keith to be discharged if it were true. Shiro looked across Keith to Lance, as if checking with him about all this, sharing the memory of Keith on the floor between them, hardly able to breathe. Lance found it difficult to meet his eyes and remain calm for Keith at the same time. It still pissed him off. Remembering the frightening circumstances of coming to the emergency room just made it harder to not say anything he'd regret to Dr. Delacroix regarding hospital policy and exactly what he thought about it. That would not help.

"There is a small chance," Dr. Delacroix replied, still calm despite how her explanations were tensing up everyone else in the room. "But I believe that was an isolated incident. If Keith has enough fluids and takes the medication I'm prescribing for him, everything should be fine; however, I think it would be safest if he stayed close until he's completely recovered – meaning no fever and strong enough to go about his normal activities. I had hoped I'd be sending him home with an EMT who lived within walking distance of the hospital."

"That's fine," Lance offered, maybe too quickly, and there was an edge to his voice he hadn't intended. "Keith's welcome to recover at my place. That was the original plan anyway." Back when he didn't know who Shiro was, when he thought he'd have to protect Keith from him.

"But . . .wait," Shiro said, keeping up even though this was not going the direction he thought it would. He sounded exactly as Lance had felt a moment ago – like he thought he was about to lose Keith forever.

"You can come too," Lance invited, though where he was going to put Shiro was a complete mystery. If Keith took Lance's bed, and Lance slept on the couch, then Shiro was. . . what? On the floor somewhere? Under the table? But they'd have to figure that out. He didn't want to keep Shiro away from Keith, that felt cruel for both of them. They still had things to work out.

"You can decide among yourselves," Dr. Delacroix told them now that her points had been made. "I'll be back in a little while with the discharge papers and prescriptions, and I'll send someone in to disconnect you from the EKG machine and remove your IV."

"You mean now?" Shiro asked her, surprised at the suddenness. They'd been in this room for so long, going hours without anyone coming in to check on them at all. So much movement all at once was a little disorienting, even to Lance who knew all about it and had expected it.

"I can only keep Keith in this room for twenty-four hours," Angelique admitted. "So yes, we're starting the discharge process so we can clear the place by four fifteen. I'll be right back." She turned to go, leaving Shiro rather shocked despite Lance's warnings that this was exactly what was going to happen.

"Wait," Keith spoke up, unexpectedly. The first time he'd said anything since Dr. Delacroix had begun her assessment regarding the EKG data. Angelique paused mid-turn toward the door, a rather sad compassion in her eyes as she looked at Keith. Lance suddenly couldn't remember if she had looked at him at all during their discussion. Because it was probably bothering her to discharge him too. She didn't like it any more than Lance or Shiro did. In fact, with her experience and position, it probably cut into her more because she was the one who had to enforce the policy.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, I should have asked. Do you have any questions or concerns?" She offered, considering him.

"Can't he do it?" Keith asked, nodding toward Lance.

"Do what, baby?" Dr. Delacroix clarified.

"The IV? He put it in so –" Keith trailed off. 

Lance kept very still in the hopes that Angelique would be able to tell that he had nothing to do with this request and had not put it into Keith's head to even ask.

"I'm not supposed to," Lance told Keith gently. "That's out of my scope of practice, remember? Taking them out isn't a big deal, though. You won't feel it at all."

Keith nodded, as though he had expected that, but he looked uncomfortable about it. Lance remembered how little Keith liked to be touched by strangers. How he shied away from even Dr. Delacroix when she examined him.

"You want Lance to take out your IV, honey?" Dr. Delacroix questioned him directly. "Would you be most comfortable that way?" Keith nodded, looking ready to have his request denied. Lance glanced at her, wishing she wouldn't lead Keith on this way when he knew she wasn't going to let him so much as pick at the tape. 

"All right," Angelique accepted, and Lance clamped his teeth shut so his jaw wouldn't fall into Keith's lap. She'd just . . .said yes? She hadn't even stopped to really think about it. Lance was never going to figure her out.

"I can?" Lance checked, just to make sure he'd heard right. All that talk about hospital policy and she was going to cave on this? Or maybe it was because she felt guilty about the hospital policy and wanted to give them something. Some small request to make up for what she couldn't do.

"Sounded like patient consent to me," Angelique told him, way too casually. As though they had never argued about it. As if she hadn't threatened Lance's EMT status over it. "It's low risk; you're trained, and I wouldn't mind watching your technique."

"Should I . . right now?" Lance asked.

"Preferably," Dr. Delacroix told him, rather teasingly. But what was he supposed to think about this? What had changed? Was it something she saw in Lance or something she'd noticed about Keith? Both? Still, Lance supposed it was a whole different game to remove an IV in a motionless and quiet hospital setting with a licensed MD supervising. He probably shouldn't overthink it.

Keith put his hand closer to Lance expectantly, some tension gone from his shoulders. He'd wanted to leave the hospital the moment he'd arrived. He didn't understand that it was an abandonment all on its own. But of course it was better that he not know that.

"Hang on, Lobito; there's a protocol," Lance told him, wrapping his head around how this was actually happening and walking past Angelique so he could wash his hands and put on some gloves. I'm not nervous, he scolded himself, feeling the flutterings of anxiety over being watched while he did this. I remove needles all the time. All the time. I never think twice about it. But Angelique had never watched him before either. He'd never thought she might be assessing him for something. He monitored his hands for shaking as he assembled what he'd need and noted the location of the biohazard waste receptacle.

But when he returned to the bed, gloves in place and ready to start, he locked eyes with Keith and immediately felt nothing but calm. Keith looked up at him with the same sort of expression Lance had seen him give to Shiro. Grateful, comfortable, trust. Like he was certain, more than anything, that Lance wasn't going to hurt him. Lance almost got choked up seeing that. It felt so special to be half of the grand total of humans on earth that Keith felt he could trust.

Lance proceeded with refreshed confidence to disconnect the IV line, first discontinuing the drip flow. Keith would be on his own now. The meds would likely wear off sometime in the next four hours, leaving him prone to the pain of the fever again. But Lance would be ready to do what he could to help. Because he was still responsible for Keith. He was taking him home. Another gift Angelique had given him.

He carefully peeled away the medical tape he'd applied in the ambulance, stabilizing the needle with his thumb to make sure it didn't twist under Keith's skin as he did so. It was like there was no one else in the room anymore. He couldn't feel Angelique's eyes on him. Couldn't tell if Shiro were even still there. He concentrated on Keith's wrist, deftly pulling the needle free with one hand and covering the site with a piece of gauze with the other.

"Put pressure on that," he instructed, though it wasn't a vein that would bleed very much. It was more for putting things into the body than getting blood out, the exact opposite of the kinds of veins Lance usually worked with. But having Keith hold onto the gauze allowed Lance to cross the room and properly dispose of the needle into the sharps container. Once it was gone, he put a simple bandage over everything. Nothing to it.

After that, he started disconnecting the EKG wires. First the lines, then the electrode disks sticking across Keith's chest. Surprisingly, this activity was more difficult because Lance had to reach around and inside Keith's hospital gown to get at them all. It made his face feel rather hot to do something so intimate, and then he felt stupid for thinking that this was more intimate than removing the IV. Being with Keith was a complicated thing, especially as he watched Lance the entire time, his eyes focused. Lance looked to Dr. Delacroix as a distraction, finding her impassive, standing in exactly the same place as when he'd started. He wasn't sure if that was good or not, but he figured if he'd been doing something completely wrong, she would have said something by now.

"All clear," he said, indicating he was finished. Test complete. If that's what this had been. Why did Keith have to put that idea into his head?

"Very smooth," Angelique acknowledged, though she was careful not to sound too impressed. "Looks like it's true what they say about you." She turned her attention to Keith. "Let your friends help you get dressed, darling. I'll be back in a few minutes with the discharge papers."

With that, she pivoted on her heel and disappeared into the hall. Lance exhaled, then wasn't sure if he'd been breathing that entire time.

"All right, Keith?" Lance asked, slightly winded.

"Told you," was all he said, and if he didn't look so fragile there in the bed with the hospital gown sort of dangling off one shoulder, Lance would have shoved him against the mattress.

"Would you stop it? I'm going to be a pediatrician, ok? With a nine to five practice, a gorgeous wife, a white-picket fence, and ten kids waiting for me to come home to dinner every night, got it?"

"Very American," Keith returned, though the humor was gone from his voice. He was suddenly staring at Lance's blanket again, rubbing his fingers thoughtfully across the cotton patch that had been part of one of Eva's dresses. "Ten kids?" He double checked quietly.

"Or more," Lance shot back with conviction. He wanted a huge family; he wanted to always be surrounded by movement and laughter, never alone again. "Now where did we put your clothes?" Lance found it a little easier to go forward now, preparing to leave the hospital, to return to his own place. It still made him mad, but at least Keith was coming home with him and not leaving with Shiro.

"I can't even remember how they got taken off," Keith admitted, and Lance looked at Shiro, suddenly drowning in that dark memory, the first little while when they'd arrived yesterday. When Keith was awake but only just hanging on to consciousness. When he couldn't move on his own, couldn't speak, couldn't really breathe. Lance would have to try his absolute best to make sure Keith didn't relapse to that point again. Just because Angelique had suggested staying close to the hospital didn't mean that Lance wanted it to be necessary.

"They're here," Shiro offered helpfully, handing over the white and blue plastic bag labeled Personal Items that had been tucked on the corner of the counter near the sink. Lance didn't remember how they'd gotten there, nor could he remember ever seeing the bag even while he'd been standing near the sink. He'd been thinking about other things.

Keith began pulling the contents out of the bag - his charcoal-and-maroon striped sweater that he'd worn to class on Friday, Lance's pajama pants, his socks and underwear. He moved slowly until he was sitting sideways on the bed, bare legs hanging over the edge, holding on to the mattress, reorienting himself to being upright, his bandaged hand immediately going to his head. Discharged with reservations indeed.

"Let me help," Lance said, unable to watch. He reached out to undo the first knot of the hospital gown at Keith's shoulder but paused when Keith cringed.

"It doesn't make sense for me to feel weird about this, huh?" Keith said, not looking at Lance. "I mean, I just let you take a needle out of my hand."

"It's not the same thing," Lance comforted him, even though he'd been in the room when the hospital staff had stripped Keith the first time. Even though he'd seen his scars, had just had his hands all over Keith's chest under the gown. Still, if their positions had been reversed, he wouldn't want Keith to dress him either. "I can leave if you want me to?" Lance looked over to Shiro again, but saw on his face that Keith probably wouldn't want him to do this either. But neither of them trusted Keith's strength enough to leave him to dress all on his own.

"Let me show you how we did it in boot camp," Shiro came to the rescue.

"You had to change out of medical gowns at boot camp?" Lance asked without pausing to consider if it were a good idea to challenge the validity of anything Shiro wanted to say right now that might be helpful. Especially since Keith looked more interested than timid now.

"Well, not every day, but yes, there were med checks where the whole squad would have to strip down into gowns and back again. I can probably get you into these clothes with my eyes shut, Keith. There's no buttons or snaps or anything fancy."

"Let's just get it over with before she gets back," Keith requested, sounding horrified at the idea of having Angelique in the room again.

"She doesn't hate you, you know," Lance defended Dr. Delacroix.

"I don't care what she thinks of me," Keith dismissed. "I want her to be fair to _you_."

"We're fine," Lance assured, wishing that Keith could understand why Angelique behaved the way she did toward him. How she was actually on their side for a lot of things. But he'd been asleep or just not there for Lance's quiet moments with Angelique – her hand on his head in the hallway, working on Keith's medical statement while Lance slept on her desk, buying antibiotic ointment for his back, and then manipulating the situation (whatever her motives had been there) to make sure Lance wasn't separated from Keith. Now that Lance was actually thinking about it, Angelique probably had to force herself to keep her distance to make sure that she wasn't favoring Lance too much. That was so weird. "But you're right; let's get this done."

In the end, Shiro did the hard parts – lifting Keith when necessary, keeping him steadily upright, while Lance did the finessing bits like socks and fitting legs through the appropriate holes in pants. The second time Lance reached over to undo the gown's tie string, Keith didn't move away. Lance noticed Shiro gazing sorrowfully at the burn scars on Keith's upper back, so he hurriedly tugged the sweater over them. 

They'd barely finished when Dr. Delacroix reappeared with the discharge papers. She brought them in herself instead of having Crystal do it, another testament to just how involved she felt with them. Keith signed wherever she told him to without comment.

"That will be all from me," she said in parting, clutching the papers in both hands after securing her pen into her breast pocket. "When you get wherever you've all decided you're going to go, I want you to relax, darling. If you do what Lance tells you to do, then I likely won't see you again. Is there anything else before I go?"

"Thank you," Keith told her, only a hint of reluctance in the gesture, sitting once again cross-legged on the bed, this time dressed and with Lance's blanket folded in his lap. "No offense, but I don't want to come back."

"I get that a lot," she replied, chuckling, still as affectionate to Keith as she left as she had been when she'd first come to his side. Then she looked at Lance and immediately hardened, though not very much. "You on the other hand," she said to Lance. "I would like to see more of. I'll be in touch with Dr. Coran. I want to discuss your training plan with the two of you." Lance felt Keith's knuckles press against his hip, but he forced himself to look only at Dr. Delacroix. He wanted to tell her, without a shred of doubt, that he knew what she was doing and he just wasn't interested. But then he remembered the things he'd heard about past students she'd mentored – how successful they turned out to be. How they could get a job anywhere. How there were only a handful of them. It'd be stupid if he didn't at least listen to what she had to say.

"Sounds good," he said instead of what he'd been thinking of saying.

"I agree. All right then. Whomever is driving can bring your car around to the main entrance. Keith, darling, please put on a mask before you leave the room; Lance will get it for you. One of the techs will be bringing a wheelchair."

Her flurry of last-minute directions complete, Angelique gave them all one final nod and disappeared to the hallway. Shiro left next, zipping up his coat with his remarkable prosthetic with the same grace as if it had been his real hand. Lance began gathering his coat and backpack, looking about the room to make sure they weren't forgetting anything. He pulled a mask from the box out in the hallway and helped Keith secure it in place, explaining to him the reason Dr. Delacroix was asking him to wear it as he passed through the hall and the waiting room to the main entrance.

When the tech came with the wheelchair, both he and Lance helped Keith pivot into it, holding on to his arms carefully and then covering him with the quilt. Keith didn't look too happy about all the assistance, but he didn't say anything about it. In fact, he sort of shut down, concentrating silently on transport. He submitted tensely to whatever hands were on him as he transitioned from the wheelchair into Shiro's white Nissan Altima, a tricky maneuver considering there was so much disgusting slush at the entrance and Keith's boots were still sitting next to Lance's couch. He tore the mask off as soon as the tech closed the car door, but let Lance pull him down to rest his head on his lap while they drove.

Keith also allowed Shiro to carry him, one last time, just from the car to the carpeted entrance of Lance's apartment building. Lance helped him into one of the random chairs stashed around the study area near the front door while they waited for Shiro to actually park somewhere legal, monitoring his breathing, which was shallow and quick thanks to the effort of moving. Wanting to do something and not liking how quiet Keith was, Lance adjusted the quilt around Keith's shoulders, giving in to the desire to rub his back a little, feeling the tautness of his muscles even underneath the blanket. This was taking a lot out of him, mentally and physically.

"Almost there," Lance encouraged, though as expected Keith didn't answer him. He was breathing hard, but he kept his mouth tightly closed after Shiro returned and they both supported him quietly to the elevator and down the hall to the apartment, obviously despising every second of it. Like he'd forgotten during his time in the hospital just how weak he truly was, and now he was seething about how he couldn't even walk on his own. Lance did his best to ignore all of it, not make it a big deal, and he knew that Shiro was doing the same. Every little shift and catch happened with each of them vigilantly keeping their eyes averted, pretending they were alone even though they were all quite focused on forward movement.

Hunk broke through all of that in half a second. They stood in the hall, Lance searching one handed for where he might have put his keys, when the door was almost ripped off instead of open and Hunk practically pounced on them. Lance watched, astonished, as Hunk grabbed for Keith, who half-collapsed against him, almost all the tension in his body that had been accumulating during the entire trip breaking in an instant as he leaned against Lance's roommate. Lance reminded himself that he couldn't feel jealous about that. He should actually be grateful that they'd made it.

"Keith!" Hunk boomed so loud that Lance wondered if their neighbors were going to start poking their heads out. "Welcome back, man! We were so worried. Dude, you ok? For sure, you look better than when you left, but you still look awful. Lance, why does he still look awful?"

"How about we get him inside and then ask questions?" Lance reminded him, not quite successful at keeping the anger out of his voice. He wasn't angry at Hunk; he was still mad at the hospital for kicking Keith out.

Fortunately, Hunk was caught up in getting Keith into the apartment and onto the couch, so he didn't seem to notice the edge in Lance's tone. He chattered at Keith as he guided him inside, Shiro and Lance following more slowly. As Hunk took charge of Keith, Lance checked the place over, reacclimating himself to it. The scent of Hunk's baking extravaganza yesterday was still thick in the heat of the place, and there were still several loaves of bread and plates of cookies on the kitchen counter. Pidge was in the kitchen too, watching Hunk with concern.

"Hey Pidge," Lance greeted her, happy to see her despite their recent differences of opinion. He had a lot he wanted to explain to her.

"Hey Lance," she returned, emotionless, and she hid her face by taking a sip of something from a tea mug. "And Shiro."

"Hello," Shiro said pleasantly, standing near the door that he'd just closed, also looking around. Like the first time he'd stood in that exact spot, he seemed to fill the whole space, appearing too large, too mature, and honestly, too sophisticated to truly feel at home here.

"This is Pidge," Lance introduced her, trying to ease the awkwardness of their homecoming. "Our pet genius. And that's Hunk." He knew that Shiro had already seen them before, and they'd spoken together on the phone last night, but this situation was new and different. Shiro would be joining them, possibly for a long while. Lance thought he should tighten up the relationships.

"Nice to formally meet you," Shiro said, smiling that gentle smile of his.

"Sure. Can I interest you in a cookie?" Pidge asked politely, snatching up one of the plates and coming toward them. Lance grabbed one, and after a moment of thought, Shiro took one too. Then Pidge looked over to where Hunk was fussing over Keith, getting him settled under the blanket at the corner of the couch and seemed to lose all her hospitality. Yeah, Lance had to talk to her very soon. She was still coldly glaring at Keith like he was Jeffrey Dahmer.

"Keith wants to try one," Lance prompted her, giving her a little push toward the couch. She spun around and actually dropped the plate into his hands, barely giving him enough time to catch it without all the cookies spilling onto the floor. Lance glared at her, but she simply gave him an innocent little head tilt and returned to her mug in the kitchen.

"So what are you guys doing back?" Hunk questioned them, somehow missing the whole thing with the plate. Shiro hadn't, though, if his raised eyebrow was a clue. "I thought you'd be staying at least one more night."

"Keith's heart is steady," Lance tried to explain without sounding pissed. It was harder now that Pidge was acting the way she was. "They don't keep people in the hospital for fevers – even ones as high as Keith's – so they said we could go."

It seemed they all turned to look at Keith then, as if they could determine everything about him by staring. Keith bowed under all the scrutiny, intensely uncomfortable. He tugged the quilt tighter around him like a shield, curling up as much as he could.

"Why don't you guys tell us what you've been up to?" Lance invited, hoping they would start some sort of complicated explanation about something. Meanwhile, Lance brought the plate over to Keith, sitting next to him, gently putting his fingertips on his leg.

"It's been boring," Hunk shrugged. "It snowed, then it snowed some more. Um, did some baking. Watched like thirteen movies. Got the mail – oh, there's a package for you, Lance. From your family."

"You didn't open it, right?" Lance checked, sharply. If it was what he thought it was, Hunk's birthday present was inside.

"Thought about it, but no. Where's the faith?"

"Good." Lance felt Keith relaxing in tiny fractions, easing himself into the couch, into the conversation going on around him. That's better, Lobito. You were here before. You're welcome here. Lance wasn't so sure what to do with Shiro, though. He still stood near the door, eating his cookie more slowly than Lance thought was humanly possible, quietly observing.

"Shiro, you can come sit here," Lance offered, though he actually didn't want to get up, didn't want to leave Keith's side. But he didn't want to be rude either. Shiro's eyes fluttered shut in momentary relief as Lance prepared to trade him places. "Keith, did you want one of these?" Lance offered the cookie plate before he got up, though maybe he shouldn't have. Keith looked rather tortured about it. He wanted one, but again didn't think he could manage it.

"Maybe later," he said quietly.

"How are you feeling, Keith?" Shiro asked him, perching with characteristic military stiffness next to him on the couch. Lance stayed nearby to hear the answer.

"Disgusting," Keith answered.

"You want a shower?" Lance offered, knowing exactly how nasty he would feel almost three days into an illness and after a hospital stay. He also figured that they should make the most of the time they had left before Keith's medication wore off. "Wash all the hospital off you?"

"Hell yes," Keith emphasized his consent, his desire to get clean overcoming any awkwardness he might feel about using Lance's bathroom.

"Ok," Lance said as he starting thinking through the logistics of that. "Let's get that started then." 

**Author's Note: Oh, Pidge, you feisty little thing. By the way, it's tough writing with all five of them together – how do you masters DO THAT?**

**Not long before the verdict reading. Hopefully Lance's report is well received; he worked so hard on it. I'm trying to pick up the pace a little on this. I'm doing my best to write it chronologically (that's not my strong suit) instead of skipping ahead to the stuff that I'm dying to write. I guess we'll all be patient together? Let me know what you're thinking. Favorite lines, things you're looking forward to. **

**Thanks again for staying with me. You're all very special. **


	19. Matter of Perspective

**Author's Note: I know! I'm late, but hey, it's a super long chapter to make up for it? Hope you all like it! (Thanks so much for all your support. I really do love you. . .even though I make you wait for chapters.)**

**Chapter Nineteen: Matter of Perspective**

Getting Keith showered and dressed turned out to be the main event of Stony Island 316 with absolutely everyone participating in some fashion. Hunk prepped the room with fresh towels and washcloths, unnecessarily checking the soap and shampoo levels. Lance went through Keith's duffel bag for clean clothes, though he ended up donating his own University of Chicago hoodie and another set of cozy pajama pants since apparently all Keith owned were three pairs of identical black jeans. Lance was taller than Keith, but not enough for it to matter much when it came to comfortable, warm clothes that were supposed to be on the loose side. Shiro helped Keith off the couch while Pidge, grudgingly, pulled a cardboard box full of electrical debris closer to the wall to make space for both of them to walk back to the bathroom.

Which is where Keith decided he would rather die than have a single person help him any farther than the doorway.

"Lobito, we've been over this," Lance lectured, already standing in the bathroom so he could assist with the finnicky old plumbing and actually get the water a decent temperature. "Or don't you remember what happened the last time you were in here by yourself?"

"I got it," Keith snipped, pulling away from Shiro and leaning against the door frame. Lance took a second to be impressed. Keith actually presented a credible posture, tolerably solid, extremely determined. "I'm not going to stand up in there," he continued, gesturing toward the bathtub. Despite what he said and how he looked, Lance was worried. The heat of the shower could make Keith dizzy. The water would make everything slippery. Keith had almost passed out in here. Keith had almost died yesterday.

"I'll be in the hallway," Lance agreed, his teeth clenched. But there wasn't much else he could do. "Stay on your knees; everything's here for you including your toothbrush, and you should be able to reach it all from the floor." Which Hunk had practically carpeted in towels for Keith's comfort and to make it less slick. "Don't get the water too hot, and put your hands in first before you douse your head – that'll help adjust your body so you don't get too dizzy. Take your time, and if you need anything, just say so."

Lance could feel that he was being stared at, and he glanced away from Keith, who was sort of smirking at the floor, to notice that it was Shiro, again with his eyebrow raised and one corner of his mouth twitching up. Yeah, whatever, Lance didn't care if they thought he was nuts. Keith had enough going on already, and Lance was unwilling to go through the ordeal of getting Keith back to the ER where Lance would certainly have to endure Angelique lecturing him over any kind of head wound when it could have been completely preventable if Keith weren't such an ass about privacy.

"Why don't you just stay with him and keep your eyes closed?" Shiro suggested, meticulously pulling his features back to neutral when he saw Lance had noticed his staring. "You can do that, right?"

"Of course _I_ can," Lance quipped, but he knew it was useless. "But I don't think Keith trusts me enough." He layered the challenge on thick. He understood, though. It wasn't so much about Keith trusting him; it was just embarrassing. And there was no way for Lance to make the point clear that being with Keith while he showered was more about keeping him safe than anything else.

"Ok," Keith burst out, frustrated. Probably mostly with himself. "If it'll make you stop freaking out, you can stay. You are the worst mother hen ever."

"Think you mean the best," Lance corrected, suddenly triumphant, refusing to be offended.

"Ugh," Keith hmphed, letting go of the door and kneeling on the towels. To Lance, who was watching maybe too closely, there seemed to be control in the movement. Keith had meant to do that; he hadn't collapsed. Maybe this wouldn't be like last time. Keith was still being bolstered by the hospital meds after all.

"All right then. Keith, if you're ok, I'm going to head out for a little while to see if I can find somewhere open that will fill these prescriptions for you," Shiro told him, watching their interaction carefully, no longer quite so amused but also not appearing very worried. "I'll probably need your ID; can I take it with me?"

"It's in his coat pocket," Lance volunteered for him, liking this plan. "Which is probably in the pile on the camp chair by the door." Shiro filling the prescriptions would help keep the heart medication constant in Keith's system. And Lance wouldn't feel so pressured about Shiro for the time he was away. "There's a 24-hour Walgreens up the street that would probably work."

"Thanks. I'll be back soon. Keith?"

"Yeah?"

"Cooperate. Lance is trying to look out for you."

Keith waved him off, though Lance saw him lift his head to watch as Shiro retreated down the hallway. There was a hint in his eyes that he was frightened every time Shiro went out of his sight. Terrified that it might be the last time he ever saw him. Even though their conversation here had been casual and friendly, there was still that momentary panic. Keith repressed it, visibly turning away, his hands curling into fists on his thighs. Lance closed the bathroom door.

"How much of my help do you want?" Lance offered. "Can I start the shower for you? The water's kind of weird."

"Fine," Keith acquiesced, again in a huff. Lance slipped past him in the tight space in order to flip on the faucets, habit allowing him to focus the temperature, keeping his hand in the flow until it adjusted where he wanted it. Behind him, he heard Keith struggling out of his clothes.

"Keith?" He checked. "Can I do something?"

"Just sit down and shut up. I've got it," Keith hissed. Keeping his back turned, Lance made his way around to the toilet, taking a seat and firmly closing his eyes. He knew Keith's sharp answer had nothing to do with him; that Keith was frustrated that something he had never thought much about was now so difficult. It made it easy to let it go. He settled in, folding his arms, and focusing on what he could hear over the pelting noise of the shower. He wished that Keith would narrate what he was doing, but that seemed a bit much to ask of him since he should save his energy for movement.

"I'm . . . sorry," Keith broke their silence after several long minutes. Lance guessed his clothes were in a pile on the towels now, and he was fairly sure that Keith was actually in the shower judging from the noise and how his voice sounded. But what did he think he needed to apologize for? Snapping at Lance? Because that wasn't necessary.

"We're good," Lance told him.

"No, this really sucks," Keith demanded that Lance pay more attention. Lance supposed apologies were not something that Keith did often, so maybe he should treat it with more solemnity. "You've got better things to do with your weekend than hanging out babysitting me."

Lance thought about that, but came up short. He honestly couldn't think of anything else he'd rather be doing right now. Keith needed him, and that was kind of his favorite thing. Plus, the more he focused on Keith, the less he could think about anything his brother had told him that morning. And he really didn't want to think about that yet, so the distraction was almost welcome.

"Nothing comes to mind," Lance denied mildly, not wanting to upset Keith anymore. It was like he wanted Lance to tell him he was right – that Lance was wasting his time and he desperately wished he'd never decided to check on Keith. That was completely untrue, though. Lance didn't even want to think about what might have happened if he hadn't spent his time worrying about Keith.

"But . . . Pidge," Keith went on, and now Lance really did have to get serious. Because Lance didn't think that Keith had noticed about Pidge, and he hadn't had a chance to explain to her that all her hostility toward Keith was unfounded and unnecessary. "I don't know what I did, but she's really mad at me. She doesn't want me here."

"Ok," Lance put the brakes on Keith's spiral into rejection. Especially since it was all in his head. Well, at least the part where Lance was concerned. "Stop right there. First of all, Pidge always looks like she's mad. Second, she doesn't actually live here. She's a guest just like you, so she doesn't get a say about who stays with us. If she doesn't like it, she can leave. Meanwhile, Hunk _does_ live here, and he's pretty much adopted you. He's in the kitchen right now trying to figure out something you can eat; I guarantee it. And lastly, none of that matters because Dr. Delacroix said you should stick close to the hospital; I promised you I'd look after you, and I don't know why we're even talking about this."

Lance's little tirade silenced Keith. Lance waited for any kind of contestation from him about anything Lance had just said, but nothing came. It went on so long that Lance got worried.

"Keith?" He checked, though he hadn't heard anything disconcerting. It was so tempting to open his eyes, but not breaking Keith's trust was more important until he knew for sure that something was wrong. "I need you to say something, Lobito; you're kind of scaring me. You all right?"

"Y-yes," Keith answered, sounding overwhelmed again. Lance wondered how long it would take before Keith really understood that Lance was his friend, what that actually meant. Sometimes, it seemed he got it – teasing Lance in the hospital, putting medication on his back, asking for Lance to remove his IV, leaning trustingly against him. Then all of a sudden it would get to be too much for him, as if he just couldn't believe it, so he'd push at the boundaries to see if they were really there, to see if they would break. Had he done this with Shiro too? Yeah, probably more violently too since he'd been younger. There was still a little of it going on there even now. But if Shiro could be patient for years, then Lance could do it too.

"We want to help you, Keith," Lance assured him again. "You're not bothering anyone; we just want you to be ok. But, um, I do need to talk to you about Pidge a little bit." Because that had to be resolved. Especially if Keith could tell that Pidge was being deliberately hostile toward him. And they were already deep into a delicate conversation, so why not?

"Ok," Keith allowed, sounding uncertain, like something was about to be broken between them. "What's her deal?"

"So she's the one who told me about. . . you know. . the whole court thing, but she got it all wrong. I don't know what she was looking at or where she got her information, but it's just twisted and extremely one-sided. She knows what you did, but she doesn't know why, and . . .yeah, it's messing with her opinion of you quite a bit."

"I hear there's a club," Keith tossed out, but Lance could decipher the hurt under it. He moved on without acknowledgment.

"I wanted to ask if you'd be ok with it if I told them the truth?" Lance requested. "You don't have to agree," he added quickly. "But I don't like how Pidge is treating you, that's not fair, and I also don't like how that makes her mad at me because she thinks I'm ignoring her advice, and honestly, that's going to end up hurting Hunk's feelings because he hates it when we disagree about something. Plus, he's so innocent that I know he's going to ask you again about the police officer that came here looking for you yesterday, and I thought, since we are all friends and we care about you, that I could let them know what really happened? Set the record straight?"

Again Keith paused, silent and brooding. Again Lance wished desperately that he could get some kind of visual feedback since Keith wasn't saying anything. But all he heard was the faucet turning off, and then even the shower was quiet.

"Keith?" He prompted.

"How is that going to make her not mad at me?" Keith questioned bitterly. Lance couldn't see him, but he imagined him sitting there hunched over his knees in the bathtub, soaking wet and shivering, convinced that he was some kind of cold-blooded killer or something. That there was nothing Lance could say that would redeem him. That the truth wasn't good enough.

"What? How can you say that? It'll make all the difference in the world!" Lance squawked, unable to comprehend Keith's thought process here. By the time Lance had finished explaining, he was certain Pidge would change her mind. And everyone would be a lot better off if Pidge were content with the ethics of the situation.

"It might be different in Cuba," Keith droned, voice still tainted with that defensive bitterness. "But around here, the truth doesn't count for a whole lot, you know?"

Lance didn't know what to say to that because Cuba was a whole lot worse when it came to things like how much the truth actually mattered, and he really did want it to be different here. But he also knew that Keith had a sad point. The only reason he'd been sentenced at sixteen and put on trial now was because influence seemed to have more weight than the truth. And suddenly Lance's piece of paper, the one on oh-so-official hospital letterhead, seemed extremely fragile and possibly useless. And that might be the case in the courtroom. But in Lance's apartment things were fair.

"You don't know her," Lance said, quietly, sadly, bringing them back to the situation at hand. To the small hospitable haven of Stony Island where Lance did have at least some control. "But I do. She's like my sister. And I can tell you that if anything at all matters to Pidge, it's the truth."

"Tell them whatever you want," Keith conceded, his voice sounding as though he were hanging his head in exhaustion or defeat. "I just don't want to be there for it, all right?"

"Deal," Lance agreed, keeping his tone flat. He stood up, groping around the room until his hand found the towel that Hunk had left for Keith. "Here," he offered it to Keith, not wanting to attempt draping it over his shoulders since he still had no real idea where Keith was in actual space, though he knew he was still somewhere in the bathtub. Then he once again moved out of the way to allow Keith the room to get up, get dry, and get into his clean clothes. He listened to Keith panting at the exertion of these activities, and once Keith grabbed on to his shoulder. Lance automatically lifted his elbow on that side, feeling Keith's weight half-falling into him, preparing to somehow catch him even though he was blind.

"I got you," he assured, even though he didn't know if that were at all accurate. Turned out he didn't have to do much but sit still as a brace. Keith balanced himself; the weight on Lance's shoulder lifting but not leaving. Keith kept his hold, breathing hard.

"Trade me places?" Keith requested, and Lance used the hand on his shoulder as a guide to find Keith's other arm, taking his opposite elbow as he stood, pivoting them around each other and easing Keith onto the toilet lid. "You can open your eyes now," Keith allowed.

Relieved, Lance took visual stock of Keith, now sitting down with his elbows on his knees, his head resting in his hands, spent. He wore Lance's pants, but had to take a break before he finished dressing. Lance took the towel from Keith's shoulders to help him finish drying his hair, which was a dripping, shiny-black mess. Keith let him do what he wanted as he recovered.

"How you doing, Lobito?" Lance checked on him as he let go of the towel and grabbed Keith's hairbrush he'd brought in from the duffel. "Are you just tired or are you having trouble breathing?"

"Tired," Keith answered, for which Lance was grateful. So far so good. Keith uttered a low growl when Lance started brushing his hair, but he didn't move and didn't tell him to stop, so Lance continued as if he hadn't heard him. He thought about making a joke about how long Keith's hair was, maybe offer to braid it for him, but he decided against it. For all he knew, Keith just hadn't had the funds or the time to get himself a haircut for a few months and that's why it looked like this. Not that it was bad or anything. . . it was actually a rather good look on Keith, who was probably the only person in the world who could sport this kind of mullet and have it be . . . attractive . . . Lance bit his tongue, shaking the thought out of his head. Better keep his mouth shut and think of something else. He turned away to measure out a capful of mouthwash, noticing Keith's wince as he handed it over.

"It's got benzocaine in it," Lance said. "In theory, it's supposed to numb everything for a little while. Long enough to brush your teeth anyway, but I bet it'll sting for a second before it helps."

Keith looked at the cap as though Lance were trying to poison him, but in the end, he tossed it back, quickly bringing a hand to cover his mouth and squeezing his eyes shut as the chemicals came into contact with the blisters. His shoulders tightened alarmingly but then relaxed as the numbing stuff did what it was supposed to do. Lance wasn't completely sure how much it helped; Keith was completely stoic as he spit it out and thoroughly brushed his teeth. He kept the towel against his mouth for several long seconds after he finished, eyes closed again, until Lance thought he looked as though he were starting to sway and dragged him to sit down, helping him into the hoodie and inviting himself to put on Keith's socks for the second time that day.

"Back to the couch?" Lance offered when he couldn't think of anything else to do.

"In a minute," Keith said, eyeing the floor from where he sat as though he wanted to skip the couch and just curl up on all the towels.

"I can call Hunk in to help," Lance suggested, half teasing, remembering the last time Keith had been transported from the bathroom to the couch. What an ordeal it had been. "Or we can wait for Shiro to get back."

"You're enough," Keith insisted, in that strange way he had of making Lance feel somehow complimented in a less-than-ideal circumstance. He shouldn't feel good about Keith saying that, but he couldn't help but be pleased about it anyway. To make it impossible for Keith to read anything in his face, Lance gathered up Keith's stuff to take it out of the room.

"I'll be right back, but there's no rush," Lance said in parting. He replaced everything into Keith's duffel, then did a quick check of the rest of the apartment. Hunk was in the kitchen, of course, a few experimental dishes surrounding him with Pidge close by. She'd dragged one of the chairs into the kitchen and now sat on it backwards and cross-legged, resting her arms and chin on the backrest, trying to appear at ease, but Lance could tell even as far back as he stood that she was tense. Hunk had picked up on it too and was trying to coax her into telling him what was wrong.

"Everything good in here?" Lance tested the conversational waters.

"It was," Pidge clipped, glaring at Lance behind Hunk's back. Lance reined in the desire to roll his eyes, knowing it would be the lit match to gunpowder.

"Hey Lance," Hunk greeted, looking rather grateful to be interrupted from what Lance could only guess was a difficult one-sided conversation. "Where's Keith?"

"Resting in the bathroom. He needs a few minutes before moving again."

"Cool. I'm making him some saltless mashed potatoes," Hunk volunteered. "And maybe an omelet? I don't know; it's killing me to not use any spices at all. We'll have to invite him back for dinner another night when he's better so I can actually cook him something real, ok? Something that actually has a taste."

"Sure, Hunk," Lance gave in readily, ignoring the pang in his chest about how they might not see Keith again depending on what happened in the morning. It was so much easier pretending that future was never coming.

"Is Shiro coming back for dinner too? Should I make something different?" Hunk went on, stressed over the menu. And probably the static charge coming off Pidge, which was getting worse the longer they continued to talk without her.

"He's coming back; he just went to fill Keith's prescriptions, but don't worry about making us all different stuff, Hunk. We can eat mashed potatoes and omelets too," Lance comforted, his voice friendly even though he was locked in a stare down with Pidge. "Are you staying the night again, Pidge?" He asked her, figuring he should start planning now for how the sleeping arrangements were going to go.

"I don't know," she returned slowly, a sharpening knife. "I was planning on it since my first class doesn't start until late tomorrow, but I thought you had already given away my spot?" Her face. Her voice. She was slicing his heart open. He had to talk to her, but he didn't have time right now. He'd have to get Keith settled and comfortable first. Then maybe take her back down to the lounge? Wait until Keith fell asleep? But could he put it off that long? Could he stand her attitude long enough to even have dinner with her like this?

"No, Pidge; you're always welcome," Lance assured, trying to put something more to the tone. Try to make her understand that everything was fine. That he'd fill her in soon. He didn't think he was coming across very well, though, if her tight expression were any clue. "But there is a chance that Shiro will be staying here too. He's been separated from Keith for way too long, so I need to figure out where we're putting everyone. I wouldn't dream of giving away your spot; you're the only one who can sleep on the couch comfortably anyway."

"Shiro can have my bed," Hunk offered immediately. "It won't kill me to sleep on the floor a night or two."

"Anyway, we'll work it out," Lance said, suddenly wanting to put off making decisions even though he was the one who had brought it up. He didn't want Hunk sleeping on the floor, even though he seemed more than willing to do so. But obviously the mattress to person ratio was terribly skewed, so there wasn't a good way out of it. "One thing at a time, I guess."

"I have a suggestion," Pidge spoke up, and Lance knew what she would say. Why doesn't Keith go home with Shiro? Why do they both have to stay here? Why do you feel so obligated to house and feed these people, especially when one of them is a complete stranger and the other a murderer?

"Shiro lives too far from the hospital," Lance shut her down before she could go any farther. "Dr. Delacroix said Keith should stay close in case he has another cardiac emergency."

"Oh, ok, so now what Dr. Delacroix says is important all of a sudden? You're going to listen to her? Last time I checked, you were going to stay as far away from her as possible and now you're going to pay more attention to what she says than to what I told you? What the hell is wrong with you?" Lance didn't think she'd meant to say that last part, but somehow it had slipped past the 'let's not worry Hunk' restraint.

"Whoa, Pidge, what's up?" Hunk turned from whisking eggs to include himself in what was going on behind him, gauging where the shield of his personality was needed the most.

"I can't believe you brought him back with you," Pidge went on, ignoring Hunk, piercing Lance with both her words and the anger in her face, apparently deciding that there was no point holding back anymore. "When is it going to be enough, Lance? How bad does it have to get? When are you going to listen to me?"

"Maybe you should listen to me," Lance returned. Somewhere in the corner of his mind, he remembered that Keith was still waiting for him in the bathroom, that he didn't really have time for this, but in the very next second, he'd decided that since this was broken open now with Pidge, he should take care of her first. "He's not what you think he is."

"Whatever," Pidge denied with an annoying shrug. Everyone in the room was extremely used to Pidge being right, about everything. Lance had seen her perform this exact move on one of her classmates after an argument about a supposed error in a math formula that had taken an entire notebook page to write out. It was something that Pidge did when she had presented the facts and whoever she was talking to stubbornly refused to accept them. She'd told Lance that it was useless arguing with overly emotional people. Whenever she hit the point where she'd determined someone was not thinking with their brain anymore, she just stopped talking to them because it was useless to continue arguing with someone who wouldn't listen to reason. It had made sense at the time, but Lance had never thought she'd do it to _him_.

"What's with you guys?" Hunk broke between them, putting a hand on Lance's chest but wisely not touching Pidge. "Why are we arguing about Keith staying here when we all know that this is something Lance does all the time and it's never a big deal?"

"Because Lance has never brought home a violent criminal before," Pidge said coldly.

"He's not," Lance began, but he was drowned out by Pidge. She growled wordlessly, allowing the sound to escalate into a frustrated scream. Now she wasn't even going to let him explain? Lance was suddenly struck with a desire he'd never entertained. Even though he'd just said that Pidge was always welcome, he was thinking very hard about sending her home until she'd calmed down enough to hear him out.

"I would really like to know what's going on here," Hunk interjected, the calmest in the room, looking worriedly at Pidge. Lance wondered how often Hunk had to witness her behaving this way. It was a first for Lance. He'd never made her this angry before. Never had a reason.

"We weren't going to tell you," Lance said, putting emphasis on each word, reminding Pidge about their agreement. She folded her arms, twisting away from them on the chair, unimpressed.

"But we changed our minds," she quipped. "When a police officer showed up talking about a verdict hearing; you went off to the hospital and had _every opportunity_ to leave Keith there and _no one_ would have said that you didn't do more than enough for him. You ignored everything I told you, everything you said you were going to do, and brought him back here anyway. So yeah, deal's off. Hunk should know when you bring murderers home, Lance. But hey, if you don't want to tell him things like that, here's a clue - _maybe you shouldn't do it!_"

"M-murder?" Hunk repeated, rather wobbly. "Keith?"

"No," Lance denied.

"Lance!" Pidge shrieked.

"You need to check your facts!" He yelled back at her, surprised at himself. "And accept that it's possible for you to be wrong about something for once!"

"I did my research; all I have to do is look at your face!"

"You guys!"

Lance could barely register Hunk between them, keeping them apart, making sensible pleas for them to chill out so they could talk this over. But Lance was already furious at people he didn't know, who he would never see, situations he couldn't control, and suddenly it was all coming out at Pidge. The person he didn't want to be mad at, the one he didn't want to hurt.

"My face is my fault," Lance insisted, leaning against Hunk's hands on him, talking around his roommate like he wasn't even there. "It's because I did what you're doing now, Kate – making assumptions and thinking I knew everything that was going on. Well, newsflash, you have no idea. Keith didn't kill anyone, got it?"

"Then why'd he confess, you moron?" Pidge retaliated, half standing from the chair, one foot on the ground, the other knee in the seat, hand gripping the backrest. Hunk looked back and forth between them, utterly confused and desperately wishing the hostility level would decrease.

"Because he doesn't know how traumatic subarachnoid hemorrhages work and apparently neither did anyone at the trial!" Lance shouted.

"All right, House, and what's on next week's episode?" Pidge scoffed, which just infuriated Lance, even more so when he didn't understand what random television series she seemed to be referencing. Pidge took the pause to wedge her insult in deeper. "You think an EMT knows more than the _medical professional_ they called in to witness at that trial?"

"Hey Pidge," Hunk tried to cut in, though he seemed to not know what his role should be here. He appeared torn between trying to stop them or allowing them to get it all out of their systems while acting as a referee.

"No," Lance felt himself spiritually stepping down, not knowing how to quickly get across the messiness of the situation. It was getting out of control in the wrong direction again. No wonder Keith's first instinct was to hit people – Lance was starting to see the appeal. He was certain people would listen better if they couldn't speak. "It shouldn't even matter; this should have never been taken to trial."

Pidge almost slammed her hands against her face in frustration, groaning at Lance's dedication to being ignorant. "How?" She pleaded to the ceiling, her fingers trailing down her face as though she were trying to peel her cheeks off. She looked ready to either scream or cry, maybe both. Her apoplectic fit forced Hunk to chance it touching her, resting one of his huge hands gently on her arm. She shook her head while Hunk turned to Lance, frightened in his worry.

"Lance?" He timidly begged. Lance knew that this was the only chance he was going to get. He needed to speak fast and very clear.

"Keith stopped a kidnapping almost two years ago," Lance dove in to the shouting reprieve, no longer talking to Pidge, who was now staring, furious, at the floor. He didn't want to talk to her anymore anyway. But he could talk to Hunk, who had no previous knowledge of any of this, and also no pre-formed opinions. "This guy, David, had grabbed his ex-girlfriend in a parking lot and was trying to force her into his car. Keith was the only one who saw it. He ran out to help, and they got into a fight. David went to the hospital, and Keith went to a juvenile correctional facility for six months. Which also shouldn't have happened, but apparently David's family has a lot of power in Chicago, so they got their way about it."

Pidge's posture changed. She'd folded her arms tightly around herself again, turning her face even further away from Lance, as though she didn't want to hear this. Meanwhile, Hunk's eyes grew larger with almost every word. He shifted closer to Pidge, as if to protect her.

"Fast forward to six weeks ago," Lance continued when no one said anything to challenge him on any point thus far. "David wakes up thinking he's hungover, but what's actually happened is a ruptured brain aneurysm. A mysterious medical anomaly that could happen for any reason to anyone. His mom finds him dead that night in his room. The family is grieving; they want an explanation. They want someone to blame. Keith's the perfect target; the death does seem to be a consequence of the fight. They go after him again, this time for manslaughter and as an adult. Keith confesses to beating him up, everyone already knew that, but Keith hasn't even seen David for over eighteen months, never touched him or went near him again. He may have messed him up, but he didn't kill him. But even if he had beaten him to death on the spot, that wasn't what he was trying to do. He only wanted to save that girl. He's been dragged through hell for trying to do the right thing, and I'll be damned if he has to put up with it here too. He doesn't deserve it, so lay off of him."

"Um, ok, wow," Hunk breathed, his face all twisted up, having received the information he'd wanted, but now looking like he wasn't sure that he had truly wanted it at all. "That's . . . a lot to take in. That's heavy stuff, man."

"That's the real truth, Kate," Lance could feel the sneer in his voice and didn't like it, but he wasn't ready to let go being mad yet. "And I will go against you, all the medical professionals, the richest snobs in this city, the entire American legal system, and anyone else who tries to say it's Keith's fault. Because I'm going to do the right thing too. That may make me look stupid to you, but no one has ever doubted which one of us is smarter."

Pidge glared at him, eyes surprisingly full of tears, and Lance felt himself soften immediately, realizing in that moment how harsh he'd just been. With Pidge.

"What happened to the girl?" She asked, her tone flat, as though she didn't really care.

"She's fine," Lance said, wondering why that would be the question Pidge would ask first. "She's a student here – political science or something like that."

"It didn't mention her anywhere in what I read," Pidge mused to herself, and Lance almost asked her exactly what she had read and where she'd found it before deciding that it didn't matter as much as smoothing the raw edges of their argument. "How can that be true?"

"Your information wasn't wrong," Lance told her, quieter, more gently, ready to start making it up to her, ready to get back in sync. It should be easy now that everything was out in the open. Now that Pidge had all the facts. "Just incomplete and probably biased. It's like they're trying to set Keith up -"

"Stop talking," Pidge whispered and without a moment's notice she was headed stiffly toward the door, ripping through the coats on the chair to find hers, stepping quickly into her boots. "Just shut up; I don't want to hear anymore."

"Pidge," Hunk entreated, going after her as soon as it was clear that she was preparing to leave. "What are you doing? Come on; don't be like that."

"Don't," Pidge told him, ducking out from the hand Hunk tried to put on her, unable to look at either of them.

"Pidge, you don't have to go," Lance told her. "I know you were trying to do the right thing too; you just needed more information." He also reached out, to try and take her coat away, to grab onto her to keep her with them if he had to. She slapped at his hands, not making contact, but forcing him to draw back. He wasn't going to make her stay if she didn't want to, even though this was not how he thought she'd react. "Pidge, let's work it out."

"No, I'm out," she returned, doing her laces up with shaking fingers. "I can't do this right now." That statement was so cryptic; Lance couldn't even guess what she meant. She didn't bother with her zipper or putting on her hat or mittens. Instead she bundled them all against her chest, holding them tight against her with one arm so she had a hand free to open the door. Lance and Hunk both stood helplessly watching her, wishing she wouldn't leave, wondering why she was so intent on it. Lance had been so sure that she would understand.

Lance let himself hope when she paused in the doorway, looking back over her shoulder with her hand clasped tightly on the doorknob. She'd changed her mind. He almost took a step toward her until he saw the expression on her face. Somewhere between fury and shame.

"You really believe that?" Pidge asked, not skeptically. There was too much sadness in her tone. "That Keith risked himself to save a girl he didn't know?"

Pidge asked him things like this often, more to gauge his sense of naiveté than because she actually thought he was lying to her. It was how she determined his grasp on culture, science, and human nature. It was her way of placing him into an emotional and psychological category.

"It wasn't supposed to hurt you, but yes, I do," Lance tried one last time to get her to come back in. "Please don't go yet, Pidge." He was about to apologize, but she cut him off.

"I'll call you later," she gave the emptiest-sounding promise that Lance had ever heard, gullible or not. Pidge closed the door behind her.

Lance looked to Hunk, who stood there stunned with his mouth half open. "You gonna go after her?" Lance asked, figuring that between the two of them, Hunk had better odds on getting through to her.

"No point," Hunk explained, resigned, though it was obvious he wasn't happy. "She'll figure it out eventually."

"And what about you?" Lance asked. "What do you think about all this?"

"I think I'm opting out of thinking about it," Hunk allowed, still staring forlornly at the closed door, a different kind of puppy who had been abandoned. "This is what you and Pidge took a walk for yesterday, isn't it? She wanted to tell you about Keith without me finding out."

"Sorry, big guy, we didn't want you to worry. That was when we both thought Keith would be back on his feet and out of our lives by now. We probably shouldn't have kept it a secret from you."

"No, it's cool. To be honest, I kind of wish it was still a secret."

"I know what you mean," Lance agreed miserably.

"But you trust him, right?" Hunk checked, meaning it when he'd said he wasn't deciding a stance on Keith. He would blindly accept Lance's take on the situation.

"Yeah," Lance said without reluctance, remembering how Keith looked as he spoke, how his eyes were far away in memory, reliving the night in the bookstore parking lot where he had saved a girl but ruined his life. "He told me the truth."

"Ok then," Hunk said, as if that were all that needed to be said, heading back to the kitchen where he'd left his bowl of half-whisked eggs. Lance knew him well, so despite his casualness he could see how hurt he was that Pidge had gone. How it was bothering him not to take her side on something. Hunk had just touched the whisk again when something struck him and he turned toward Lance, quizzical. "But . . . did he actually hit you in the face? Because I thought you ran into a door."

"No," Lance sighed, knowing that this moment had to come eventually. "He punched me."

"Um, why though?"

"Because I didn't listen to you," Lance said. "When you were telling me that Keith probably had a good reason for missing all our homework appointments. He was sleeping in class, and that made me so mad at him, I just didn't even think about figuring out why. I shocked him awake, and he's one of those people who do the fight thing over flight when they're surprised. He wasn't even thinking about what he was doing. It was my fault. How long do you think it'll take Pidge to come back? Do you think she'll forgive me?" Because Lance would rather talk about that than the bruise on his cheek. And Hunk knew her better, could make the best guess.

"Dude, it's going to take a while. This is kind of more serious than the day you beat her at chess. I've never seen you yell at anyone like that, and . . . well . . . this whole situation is crazy, isn't it?"

"Sorry I dragged it home with me, Hunk," Lance apologized. He didn't think he would have done anything different, even knowing everything he knew right now, but it still felt wrong to involve Hunk without his permission, felt wrong to have kept it a secret for so long. "I didn't mean to ruin everything."

Hunk didn't answer, but he did leave the counter to give Lance a hug, wrapping him in his broad arms and squeezing almost to the point of pain. Lance relaxed, not being able to hug back, but bringing his hands up to rest against Hunk's biceps.

"I wouldn't say everything's ruined. At least not forever. We'll be ok," Hunk promised. "Hopefully Keith will be too. Maybe you should go check on him? He's been back there by himself for a while."

"Uh, yeah," Lance acknowledged as Hunk released him. He hadn't meant to leave Keith stranded in the bathroom so long. Hadn't intended to have a shouting match with his adopted sister either. Had never dreamed waking up Friday morning that this would be how his weekend turned out.

As Lance stepped away from Hunk, he felt Pidge slip painfully out of his soul a little. A piece of a connection lost or broken. Because there was nothing he could do now except wait for her to decide what her next move would be. Whether she could forgive Lance and believe Keith or if she wouldn't be able to accept anything Lance had told her. Lance paused to look over his shoulder at Hunk in the kitchen, noticing the absence of the tiniest person with the biggest personality he had ever seen, marveling at the massive hole she had torn into the feel of the place. Because it did feel emptier now, not the way it had when it really had been just Hunk and Lance, before Hunk had ever brought Pidge home. Not how it felt when she was at class or sleeping at her own place. No, now that she'd been so much a part of their world, the apartment actually felt colder without her.

Lance just couldn't believe she'd run away. He thought he knew her.

He flipped on all the lights as he made his way back to the bathroom. The kitchen light was already on, but the rest of the apartment seemed relentlessly dark here in the aftermath. Lance switched on the living room light, then the one in the hall . . . which is where he almost tripped on Keith, who was sitting braced against the wall just out of sight of the living room.

"Geeze, Keith!" Lance yelped, shocked to find him there on the floor. How had he gotten there? Had he been listening? How long? Lance went to his knees beside him, checking him over for physical and emotional damage. "What are you doing? You were supposed to wait for me."

Keith lifted his head slowly, his expression a variety of pain. Yeah, he'd definitely heard everything.

"Still think the truth matters to anyone?" He asked morosely. You think I matter to anyone? Lance heard the inaudible question twisted up hard in Keith's words and that something inside him ripped a little more. He leaned in close, cupping a hand against Keith's face and touching foreheads, trying to force it closed again. Keith didn't move.

"It matters to me," Lance said firmly. How could Keith not see that? Hadn't he heard Lance losing his friend out there defending him? Lance sat back, shifting his hand from Keith's face to his knee. "Are you ok?" Lance checked.

"No," Keith answered, quick and sharp and honest.

Hunk's shadow appeared next to them; Lance's shout pulling him over to see what was going on. "Oh," was all he said, seeing Keith and Lance together on the floor.

"I should leave," Keith abruptly volunteered. "I'm messing everything up. You didn't sign on for this."

"It sounds like you didn't sign on for it either, buddy," Hunk told him, leaning against the wall across from them after stepping lightly over the tangle of their legs to get to Keith's other side, gazing benevolently down at them. "And my vote is no on leaving, but I do think we should get you off the floor. Come on."

Keith looked up at Hunk as though he hadn't understood a word he just said. Or maybe that Hunk had no idea what he was offering. Lance was struggling to get his emotions under control. There were so many, and they were all powerful.

"Not going to pick you up this time," Hunk said as he took hold of Keith's wrist and began pulling him forward so he could slide his other arm behind his back. "Lance?"

"Oh, right," Lance realized that Hunk would need him on Keith's other side, though Lance took Keith's hand instead of his wrist, since he was on Keith's right and he didn't want to hurt him where his IV had been. Most of Keith's strength seemed to be gone, but Lance couldn't tell if it was because he'd used it all in getting down the hallway on his own, or if it had drained him to hear Lance and Pidge fight about him, or if he were just too overwhelmed by Hunk's unexpected kindness. Probably some combination of everything. He shook under their hands.

"Man, you really are burning up," Hunk said piteously as they clumsily made their way the few steps over to the couch. "How long is it going to take for him to feel better, Lance?"

"Shouldn't be much longer," Lance answered, more than half guessing, wishing he could make that the truth just by saying it. He no longer sounded very convincing. "But Keith's immune system was damaged by anemia before he even got sick, so it's moving slower than normal. I can't say for sure how much longer." He was doing it again. Talking about Keith like he wasn't there. Like he wasn't physically shuffling toward the couch between them, like they weren't the only things holding him upright. But Lance thought he heard the softest of restrained sobs and figured that Keith would very much like to disappear right now. He wanted to be ignored. At least for a little while.

Hunk sensed it too, sitting Keith down and disappearing back into the kitchen without another word. Meanwhile, Lance made himself busy finding where his quilt had disappeared to, wanting to bring it back to cover Keith. Now that the lights were on indoors, he also went to the sliding glass balcony door to draw the curtains closed, noticing that the snow had picked up again, heavy flakes not so much drifting as hurtling to the ground. He tried to remember how far away Pidge lived, how far she'd have to walk in this before she was warm and safe again.

"Five minutes," Hunk broke into his thoughts, jerking him into finishing with the curtains, hiding the storm from view.

"What's that?" Lance questioned, not following what Hunk meant, looking quickly at Keith, who was huddled in a little ball at the end of the couch closest to the hallway and the kitchen, face hidden in his arms.

"Her place is a five-minute walk from here," Hunk explained. "She'll be fine."

Lance nodded numbly, taking that in, then started wondering how long he should let Keith sulk like that on the couch before he started trying to comfort him somehow. He'd only taken one step toward him before needing to switch directions toward the door. Someone was knocking on it. Someone who couldn't be Pidge because the sound came too high for her. And she never knocked anyway.

"I made it," Shiro said in greeting as Lance opened the door to him. He was soaking wet with melting snow, pushing his dripping hair backward from his face with one hand. In his other, he carried a Walgreens bag. "Thought I'd have to call you to get in the building, but someone let me in."

"Sorry! I should have let you take my key card. Come in," Lance invited, hoping Shiro's powerful figure would somehow make up for what was suddenly missing.

"It turned out fine. Here, you probably know what to do with these better than I do," Shiro offered the handles, unconsciously looking around the apartment. Lance accepted the bag, stripping off the multiple layers of packing to get at the prescription bottle of heart medication and the iron supplement so he could check the timing and the dosage requirements. Meanwhile, Shiro made a beeline for Keith, who had timidly raised his head to see when he heard him at the door.

"Dinner will be ready in a few minutes," Hunk called out from the kitchen. Only Lance heard him mutter under his breath, "such as it is." He knew that it was going to bother Hunk that Shiro's first sampling of his cooking would be so simple. He'd have to make a comment about how it wasn't anything like Hunk's normal masterpieces to make him feel better. He could at least do that after chasing Pidge out of the place.

"What'd I miss?" Shiro asked, not in the casual tone of a passing remark either. Even Shiro, who was new here, was noticing that something was going on. "Keith, you're shaking again, what's wrong?"

Lance turned from where he'd been making a new home for Keith's medicine on the kitchen counter to see what was going on in the other room. Shiro's dark head had joined Keith's on the couch, but it seemed as though Keith really didn't want anyone to look at him. He curled away from Shiro, hiding his face again.

"What happened?" Shiro demanded, this time from Lance, who was mostly focused on Keith. He must be feeling so trapped right now. Out of place, out of options, and unwanted. Like he didn't belong anywhere. "Where's .. . um," he seemed to forget Pidge's name, so he held out a hand at about her height instead.

"Pidge had to go home," Hunk said, dedicatedly calm about it, dishing food onto plates. Lance watched Keith wince, but wasn't sure if it was the name or Hunk talking about going home that did it.

"She couldn't stand to be in the same room with me," Keith murmured darkly, the statement dramatically narrowing Shiro's eyes as he leaned in closer to Keith.

"It's not like that," Lance protested weakly, but he didn't have another explanation. Hunk gave him a moment's respite by handing him plates for Shiro and Keith. "Here, guys, it's a kind of weird dinner, but you should be able to eat it, Keith."

Keith didn't look like he wanted to eat anything. He uncurled enough to take the plate, but sat there with it on his lap, his hand holding it just enough to make sure it didn't fall to the floor. Shiro took his own portion but placed it immediately on the coffee table. He went to put an arm around Keith's shoulders, but Keith flinched away from him.

"You don't have to," Keith told him. "You can go too; I've wasted enough of your time."

"You have never been a waste of my time, Keith," Shiro assured him, resting his arm around Keith despite his words and actions. Lance found he couldn't step away from them, even though he knew he should for privacy's sake. He didn't want to leave Keith's side. Instead, he tucked himself onto the floor beside them, also putting a reassuring hand on Keith.

"Then why did you transfer?" Keith begged, months of hurt attaching to the brand-new wound that Pidge had caused. How it all seemed to culminate into one dominating trend of pushing Keith to the side. Of leaving him behind.

Shiro looked uncomfortable, as though he didn't want to answer the question. "This isn't where I wanted to talk about that either," he confessed, then hurried to explain as Keith tightened up again. "I mean, I wanted to take you out for dinner . . . this isn't how I pictured it. But you've got the wrong idea about it, so maybe now should be the time."

Keith looked at him, utterly confused, lip trembling a little bit.

"Just remember – I wanted to tell you this months ago," Shiro reminded him. "I asked to be transferred so I could start the adoption process for you, Keith. I wanted us to be family – legally."

"W-what?" Keith almost gasped.

"A social worker isn't allowed to adopt a minor that they are directly working with – it's a conflict of interest. I had to transfer if I even wanted to start the paperwork, and I couldn't have been working with you for at least three months before I could submit anything. I picked Kasey because I thought he'd be the only one in the office besides me that you could put up with."

"You're kidding," Keith struggled. Lance tightened his hold on his hand, wondering if he was going to fall apart. "Why didn't you just tell me?"

"Because there was a chance that something would go wrong and it wouldn't go through," Shiro admitted. "I didn't want to make you any promises that I couldn't keep or get your hopes up about something that I couldn't follow through on. You've had way too much of that."

Lance took Keith's plate for him, knowing that he was two seconds from losing his hold on it. Once it was off his knees, Keith drew them up again, turning toward Shiro, who readily wrapped him in both arms and pulled him in close, protected. Lance could hear Keith sobbing into Shiro's sweater.

"I withdrew the submission last October after your birthday," Shiro went on. "Took the decision away from them – they were taking too long on it. Now that you're an adult, we just have to fill out a simple form and turn it in at the county clerk's office. I've got it at home; it just needs your signature."

"And I can come stay with you?" Keith managed, breathing hard, almost too overcome to speak.

"I really hope you do," Shiro answered, genuine. "I've missed you a lot, and no one can say we can't anymore."

Lance took a quick glance over his shoulder as he noticed that Keith wasn't the only one in the room crying. Hunk had his face hidden in a dishcloth, trying to keep quiet so as not to disturb the touching scene on the couch. Lance remembered meeting Shiro yesterday, how earnest he had been in finding Keith. I need to talk to him; it's important. That's what he'd said. It made so much sense now.

"I want to go home," Keith whispered, wrenching Lance's heart. He wanted that for Keith, wanted him to have a home. But he also remembered that it just wasn't possible for him yet. He had to stay close to the hospital. Had to go to court in the morning. They weren't quite free yet to be together the way they wanted.

"I'll get you there," Shiro promised, though Lance noticed he was careful not to say when. He actually looked at Lance over Keith's head, his expression tight with worry. He ran his hand up and down Keith's back. "Easy now, Keith, calm down. Maybe I should have waited a little longer; this seems a little much for you to handle."

Because Keith was still shaking, hard, tucked up against Shiro's chest, looking small and breathing raggedly. He looked like he needed a distraction, something to take his mind off everything for a little while until he could go through it more slowly. Or at least he needed everyone to stop paying so much attention to him.

"Hey Hunk," Lance called to his roommate. "Put on that annoyingly cheerful playlist."

"Wha . . .oh, yeah, sure, good idea," Hunk caught on almost instantly, synching his phone to the Bluetooth speaker in the kitchen and letting his cleaning music fill the apartment. Fill the corners and drown out the wind, cover Keith's crying, and replace the pieces of conversation that Pidge would have contributed if she were still here.

"Congratulations, Keith," Lance said softly, patting him on the knee before getting up to join Hunk at the table, letting them be together, at least for a little while. Let them pretend that there was nothing going on. That nothing could separate them again. Just give them a little bit of time.

He kept watch out of the corner of his eye as he ate with Hunk, watching as the tension left Keith. Watched as Shiro spoke to him softly, too low to hear over the music, coaxing his plate back into his hands. He ate less than half, but at least he ate something. Shiro didn't seem to notice anything he put into his mouth; he was completely focused on his new . . what? Not son, they were too close in age, that would have been weird. Maybe brother? Yeah, that seemed more appropriate. Keith and Shiro were brothers now. Or they would be as soon as they could get that form signed and filed.

They stayed tight like that until it became obvious that Keith was fading. The shivering became less an emotional problem and more of a physical one. Shiro pulled the quilt tighter and tighter around him as the evening went on, and Keith squirmed ever closer to Shiro in an effort to get warm.

"Lance?" Shiro eventually called him over, after the dishes were cleared, washed, and dried. After Hunk had excused himself to his bedroom for a while. Lance suspected he went to call Pidge in private, but he was secretly relieved about that. Hopefully, Hunk could talk some sense into her. Lance paused in the homework he'd brought to the table to see what was going on, ready to be of service. "I don't know what's wrong; he won't tell me."

"My guess is the pain meds are wearing off," Lance explained, watching Keith, who was barely awake. He'd dozed off several times while talking with Shiro, probably planning their future. "Huh, Lobito?"

The frustrated half-glare was more than an answer for Lance. He returned to the kitchen to get Keith a glass of water, the heart meds, and something for whatever pain he was in. Shiro helped him take it while Lance went to his bedroom for the familiar notebook, the stethoscope, thermometer and everything else he'd been using for Keith before they went to the hospital. It was time to start keeping track of those things again.

"Temperature 103.1," Lance said out loud as he documented it. "Heart rate is ninety. Blood pressure is . . . not too low, and your oxygen is good. But I think we should get you in bed, Keith. Are you staying, Shiro? The couch is kind of small, but you're welcome to it."

"No, thank you, but I can't stay," Shiro declined again. And again Keith reanimated immediately at the news.

"Shiro?" He said his name more as a request.

"I need to get ready for tomorrow," Shiro said gently. "I need to find your suit for one thing, but I'll be here to pick you up around eighty-thirty, ok? Lance will call me if you need anything."

Lance nodded, accepting the plan, preparing himself for the last night Keith would be with him.

"M-my suit?" Keith seemed confused, which made Lance worried. Shiro and Lance exchanged glances.

"For court," Shiro explained. "Remember? Your verdict hearing is tomorrow at ten?"

"_Tomorrow!?_" Keith rasped, alarmed, and Lance realized their mistake. It seemed that everyone knew about the court date and time. Officer Guist, Hunk, Pidge, Lance, Shiro. Hell, even Dr. Delacroix knew. But it seemed that every time this information had been shared out loud – Keith had been either out of the room or asleep.

They'd all forgotten to tell Keith.

**Author's Note: Ouch! Sorry Keith; we thought you knew. So much emotional whiplash here; are you guys ok? This chapter was a doozy for me. I actually really struggle writing verbal arguments, though I'm so satisfied after they're done. (Pidge, you need to come back!)**

**One more long night guys before the verdict. Hang in there. **


	20. Escape Velocity

**Author's Note: I know. . .what am I doing updating late afternoon on a Friday when I know that's the worst possible time to put up a chapter? You all have stuff you're doing, preparing for your weekends. I'm just torturing myself because I'll have to wait FOREVER to see if you guys like the chapter.**

**That's ok. I like the chapter. I can wait. I mean, I make you guys wait all the time. Thank you for that. Thank you so much for that. **

**Chapter Twenty: Escape Velocity**

In less than thirty seconds, the atmosphere of the apartment shook itself of all calm. The revelation to Keith that his hearing was in the morning had struck him like a gunshot, leaving Shiro and Lance both sputtering apologies.

"Keith, I'm so sorry," Shiro began at the same time Lance said, "I can't believe we all thought you knew."

Shiro kept a tight hold on Keith, who seemed to want to leap up from the couch and bolt for the door. Even though there was no escape from this, no where he could go, and he didn't even have the strength to make it to the hallway. None of that connected for Keith; he was suddenly desperate to move, to get away.

"Settle down, Keith; there's no point getting all frantic about it. You'll end up hurting yourself," Shiro advised, just the tiniest hint of exertion in the slow-moving tranquility of his voice as he tried to calm Keith down. Keith obviously disagreed with all of Shiro's logic and continued to struggle. Lance took pity on him, snagging his hands and pulling him upright off the couch, though Shiro shot him a look of confused exasperation for enabling Keith's panic. But Lance understood. If Keith wanted to stand up to feel as though he had the tiniest bit of control here, then Lance wasn't going to deny him that. It may even help calm him down. 

Though he allowed him to stand, Lance kept close to Keith, pulling him tight against his side as Keith began to realize that his body just wasn't able to keep up with his flight response. He groaned, miserable and angry, shivering with uncontrollable fever chills and shaking with exertion simultaneously. It was all Lance could do to hold him, and he wondered if he hadn't made a mistake helping him upright. He almost set Keith back on the couch, worried about what all of this was going to do to his heart, standing or not, but Keith determinedly dragged them over to the table, reaching out for one of the chairs and taking a seat there as if that were some sort of compromise. Shiro stood near the couch still, his face full of Keith's pain.

"Shiro, how?" Keith begged, though the question was so unclear. He could hardly get the words out, his throat sounded constricted, as though he were being strangled. Lance pulled up another chair so he could sit knee-to-knee with Keith next to the table, reaching out to steady him. Keith grabbed on to Lance's wrists, frantically hard, as though Lance were the only thing stopping Keith from falling off a cliff. "I can't. I just . . . I can't go back. Tomorrow?"

Lance didn't mean to wince, but Keith's fingers dug into the pressure points against his pulse; Keith's voice stabbed him deep in the chest. He wanted to make this better for him, but he didn't know how.

"Easy, Keith," Shiro calmed, uselessly. "Come on, let go. You're hurting Lance."

Shiro's words caused Keith to rip his hands away, horrified, and he immediately turned sideways, cowering against the backrest, folding his arms across his own chest and grabbing on to the extra fabric in the sleeves of Lance's hoodie so he could continue to hold tight to something. His breathing rattled away from any kind of normal pattern; he'd returned to quick gasps followed by long, disturbing pauses. Lance leaned closer, wanting to comfort him but suddenly being too afraid to touch him. He'd become so breakable in the last minute, unsteady, unstable – the way he had been on Friday afternoon when Lance was hesitant to get within striking range. Not that he thought Keith would hurt him, at least not on purpose, but his defense mechanisms were amped high, sensitive and tense.

"Lobito," Lance tried instead to reach him with words alone. "Please don't hold your breath like that; give your heart the oxygen it needs. It's still working extra hard, ok?" When Lance mentioned Keith's heart, Keith reached over to him again, this time slower, obviously trying to be gentle but needing help. He put his trembling hand against Lance's chest, panting, struggling to do what Lance said but finding it difficult to return to an unfrenzied rhythm. Lance supported Keith's arm, held it upright to allow Keith to keep his palm against Lance's steadier heartbeat, understanding that Keith was trying to do the same synchronization technique Lance had explained in the hospital. Though he still felt that hadn't worked as well as everyone seemed to think it did, Lance mirrored Keith's movement and put his own hand against Keith's chest, unable to feel anything under the bulk of the sweatshirt.

"That's right," Lance encouraged softly, calmly even though he found it difficult not to match Keith's stress, almost as if the synchronization were going the opposite direction, speeding up Lance instead of slowing Keith down. But that's not what Lance wanted; he had to stay slow and calm and steady for Keith. Even though Lance still didn't know if it was right or if it would help. But maybe all that mattered was that Keith thought it could. "Slow everything down," Lance breathed for both of them.

"Lance," Keith gulped, completely undone, sounding as though he were hoping Lance could help somehow, make it better, that he would know what to do. But Lance couldn't do anything about this, couldn't stop time, couldn't change events that had started before he'd even met Keith. The only thing he could do was stay with Keith until it was over. Less than fifteen hours from now. The only thing Lance could do was pretend that it would all work out.

"Shh, Lobito, it's going to be ok. Come here; put your head down," Lance commanded, shifting even closer to Keith, forcing Keith to back up a bit as Lance slid their chairs together. Lance tucked his legs underneath the table so he also sat sideways, hips touching Keith's, facing opposite directions. Keith folded against him as Lance pulled him over, guiding his head to his chest, allowing him to rest his ear against Lance's heart. He put his hand against Keith's neck, combing his fingers slowly through his hair. "Don't think."

"I can't," Keith repeated into Lance's shirt.

An unfamiliar tone broke the scene, causing Lance to look around to determine the source of the noise, but went back to Keith when he saw Shiro pulling his phone out to answer it.

"It's ok," Lance continued to murmur reassuringly, folding Keith in the cadence of it. "One breath at a time for now."

"Yes, speaking," Shiro was saying into the receiver. Lance held tight to Keith, both of them quiet enough that Shiro's phone conversation became the dominant focus. "Yes, thanks for returning my call." The voice on the other end of the line suddenly shredded into the room, just loud enough that the tone was clear but the words were not. Whoever had called Shiro back sounded extremely pissed off. Not shouting into the phone, but racing through . . .what? A lecture? Questions maybe? Yes, shooting off questions to Shiro at a rapid pace. Shiro stood next to Keith, hand rubbing up and down his back as he listened to whoever it was run out of steam, the action appearing more and more as if Shiro were doing it to keep himself calm rather than Keith. Lance wasn't sure how he would take standing there listening to someone shouting at him like that. Shiro always seemed the very picture of patience.

"There was no way for him to contact you," Shiro cut in, excusing Keith. "Like I said in the message, he was in the emergency room. Yes, he's with me now, but I don't think he can talk. He certainly can't be screamed at." Keith tried to sit up, but Lance wouldn't let him. He didn't want him to have to deal with anything or anyone else. Not one thing more if he didn't absolutely have to.

"Shiro's got it," Lance whispered, wanting to join Shiro in protecting Keith from the fury on the phone. "Hold still." 

But Keith paid no attention. He seemed to have recognized the intense voice. As Shiro made protests, Keith reached up to tug on his sleeve, using that and a few gestures to indicate that Shiro could put the call on speaker. That Keith was going to try and participate in whatever was going on.

"All right," Shiro sharply broke into what seemed to be a rather long, exhaustive tirade of threats on not being able to speak to Keith. "Keith's agreed to talk to you, but please keep in mind he's - yes, thank you." Hesitantly, as though he were questioning himself on whether this were a good idea or not, Shiro pushed a button and knelt down into the tangle of Keith and Lance to allow them better access.

"Krolia?" Keith asked in a broken, exhausted voice. Lance stared at the phone as if that would give him some kind of clue about her. That voice belonged to Krolia? Keith's lawyer? She sounded absolutely terrifying.

"Kit?" Lance wasn't sure at first if Krolia had said Kit or Kid, but as she began repeating it in the conversation that followed, he decided for sure the end consonant was a T. He did notice that she had lowered the volume and the violence from when she'd crashed into Shiro. The intensity was still there, just shifted, barely contained, a simmer rather than a boil. "For fuck's sake, Kit, why didn't you contact me? It's been a complete disaster. You missed the check-ins; I called and called. No one could find you. I've been putting out fires since Friday. They all thought you ran, hell, even I was starting to believe it – that bastard Rozensweig was just having a field day with _that_. I think he already put your name and face out to the TSA, the rotten little prick. How _could _you?"

"Tone it down," Shiro threatened in the background, a warning that if this continued the way it had started, he was going to hang up. Lance nodded to himself in total agreement. He thought he heard Krolia growl, but she did let up enough to let Keith respond.

"I'm sorry," Keith apologized weakly, slumping partially into Lance again. Keith had a hand against his forehead, leaning against Lance's chest as Lance twisted rather awkwardly in his seat so he could support Keith and see the phone, as if that would let him hear better. Lance was completely astonished by Krolia, by her dark, murderous voice. He thought the phone might melt from the venom in her tone. "I didn't mean to disappear, Krolia; I just . . I . ."

Lance pressed his nose into Keith's hair. Even now, Keith wasn't able to say what happened to him, couldn't give voice to his own suffering. He'd rather allow himself to be sternly lectured, rather let Krolia think whatever wrong assumption she was holding in her mind, than admit the truth to her. Fortunately for him, he didn't have to actually say it. The weakness in his voice was enough.

"God, you really are sick, aren't you?" Krolia asked, suddenly gentle after she heard Keith speak. "Where are you now? Still in the hospital? Have you been there this whole time?" Lance had never heard anyone talk as quickly as Krolia, the waves of her questions crashing against each other, the next already started nearly before the last one had finished as if that were even possible.

"I. . ." Keith started to explain, but couldn't manage it. His voice broke, and he buried his face into Lance's shirt, which caused Lance to instinctively pull him closer. "I'm sorry."

"All right, Kit, stop, never mind. Takashi was right; you shouldn't be talking. Go ahead and let him answer for you now. Is he still around?"

"I'm still here," Shiro volunteered, ready to speak for Keith. He shifted as though preparing to stand up, take the phone away, perhaps into another room, but Keith put a hand on his wrist to keep him there. He might not be able to say much, but apparently he did want to hear the conversation. Lance didn't blame him. After they'd screwed up in not telling him when the hearing was, it made sense that Keith didn't want to potentially miss out on any more information.

"Takashi, what the hell happened to my boy?" Krolia addressed him again, voice stripped of any tenderness, but Shiro stopped her before she got started.

"Keith's still listening," he warned her to prevent her disclosing anything she may not want Keith to hear. "And he's been through a lot, so I'm glad we're in agreement about it now."

"So are you still in the hospital?" Krolia began. "Because I know Keith isn't at home."

"No, Keith was discharged today – late afternoon. We're staying with one of Keith's friends since he lives nearby. There's a chance that Keith will have to be readmitted; we have to watch his heart rate pretty close right now. I was hoping to talk to you about postponing tomorrow's hearing until Keith is stronger. Do you think there's any chance of that?"

"Eh, maybe, but I don't know. They normally don't allow that unless someone actually _is_ in the hospital, and Rozensweig – the little weasel representing the Hunts - anyway he's being such a jerk about the whole disappearing thing that I don't think we can get away with any sort of exception at this point. I believe they'll see it as a delay because no one's found Kit yet," Krolia paused, as if thinking of all possible angles. "Now I know why he was so out of it last Thursday. How bad is he? You said his heart?"

"He can't even stand up," Shiro easily said the words that always caught in Keith's throat, though he locked eyes with Lance as he spoke, as if he needed Lance to confirm that he was giving the correct information. "His heart's beating too fast and irregularly; it dropped his blood pressure so far yesterday that we almost lost him." Shiro no longer spoke quite so easily telling Krolia that. Those memories still haunted him. "He was treated for anemia at the hospital, so that part is improving, but he's still got a pretty serious fever. He's very weak."

"Why the hell did they let him leave?" Krolia interjected, her anger rising again but at least directed at the right target this time. They shouldn't have let him leave. Lance felt his hands involuntarily clench, which caused Keith to twitch in his arms, preparing to draw back as though the movement was a sign that Lance didn't want to hold him anymore. Lance had to force his muscles to relax, return to the slow rhythm of smoothing the hair at the back of Keith's neck, unconsciously shushing Keith into stillness, reminding himself of his role in all this – he was only here to support Keith, that was his only purpose. And right now that meant keeping him calm.

"Well – I guess because they figured he was stable enough to recover at home from now on, but really – his condition is not good," Shiro tried to make sense of the hospital's policy without downplaying Keith's symptoms. "Do you think anything can be done?"

Krolia was silent a long time, obviously pondering their options. Shiro started supplying suggestions for her.

"If they won't reschedule, I could attend in his place, maybe? As a proxy? Or we could set up some kind of webcam connection so he could attend, but not in person?"

"No," Krolia denied. "That won't be accepted. If the jury finds him guilty, he'll be taken into custody right away. He will have to be physically present; otherwise, there is too much of a flight risk."

"But –" Shiro began to protest, about to cite his conviction that Keith wouldn't do that, but Krolia wouldn't let him.

"You're a little too close to the situation, so I'm afraid it doesn't matter how much you trust him, Takashi," she said. "As far as the court knows, he already did try it."

"What about Fritz?" Shiro pressed. "Officer Guist? He saw Keith yesterday; he can witness as to where he was. Couldn't the court send him over here as a representative during the hearing?"

"Wait, you're telling me Guist _saw him_? What the hell; no one told me that."

"Couldn't he come as insurance or something?" Shiro reminded her of his original question after hearing her get distracted about Guist not reporting to her that he'd actually found Keith. Lance had to wonder about that too. Surely, he'd told someone? Or maybe he had, but then no one notified Krolia about it. Or maybe she just hadn't checked all her messages yet, it seemed she was a little behind.

"You know they don't do that," Krolia objected dryly. "He'll have to be there, in person, no exceptions unless he ends up back in the hospital."

Keith's hand could not grip any tighter to Lance's sleeve, and he pressed as close as possible against him. Every muscle taut in agony as though he were trying to shrink himself into invisibility. Lance looked to Shiro, hoping he could see it too. They were going to have to take the conversation away from Keith; he couldn't stand listening to it anymore despite how he'd wanted to. Shiro nodded, understanding, and patted Keith's knee before getting up. Keith's head was tucked so close to his chest, he didn't seem to notice the change.

"Listen, can I meet you somewhere to talk more about our options?" Shiro requested.

"It's so cute how you think we have options," Krolia droned sarcastically.

"There has to be a solution," Shiro remained steadfastly hopeful. "But I think this conversation is getting too much for the phone, and Keith needs to get some rest."

"If Kit gives you a written statement that he gives me permission to talk with you, then, sure. We can meet."

"Great. Is now ok?" Shiro made a writing motion to Lance as he continued with the particulars of where and when with Krolia. Lance tipped his chin toward the kitchen counter where they kept a notepad and a pen, unwilling to leave Keith to get it for him and figuring that Shiro would understand. Shiro scribbled a few lines about granting clearance to discuss everything about Keith, the case, and the trial. Keith had to be prodded a little to sign it, but both the form and the phone conversation were finished almost at the same time.

"We'll do what we can," Shiro half-promised, kneeling in front of Keith again, obviously conflicted about leaving him. "Keith, I'll call Lance with updates. I'm not leaving you, do you understand? I'm coming back."

But Keith seemed broken inside, reminding Lance a little of a bicycle chain that had slipped from its gears. You could turn the pedals all you wanted, but there would be no forward progress.

"Keith?" Shiro asked again, disturbed and worried, then switched direction when Keith didn't respond. "Lance?"

"It's shock," Lance named what was happening to Keith, still holding on to him, holding him together. Keith's mind was processing what had happened tonight, all the life altering and shattering details dumped on him all at once. He'd hit the point where he had to shut down in self-defense. It didn't help that the sun was gone, that the pain medication had worn off, that the night always made everything worse. "He's overwhelmed."

"Should I stay?" Shiro asked, torn about which action would be in Keith's best interests.

"No," Lance determined, hoping it was the right answer. "See if you can get this thing pushed back a few more days." Give Keith some more time to recover, some more time to catch up with Shiro, to get that relationship back again. Give him all the time to be as free as possible.

Shiro nodded agreement, putting a hand on Keith's head in parting. "We're going to get through this," he said, determinedly. His voice was strong, but his face was full of doubt and question. He wanted to get past this, to find a solution, but he just couldn't see how that was going to happen. "Get some rest, Keith. Lance is here watching over you, ok?"

Painfully resolved, Shiro gathered up Keith's note and his file and hurried into his coat. Lance remembered just in time to have him grab the key card so he could let himself back in whenever he wanted to. Shiro looked at them hard, as if he'd never see them again, eyes brimming sympathy for Keith, and a shared sense of responsibility with Lance. He was trusting him with Keith again.

"I've got him," Lance promised, which allowed Shiro to tear himself away, heading off into the snow again, a warrior on a mission. "Be safe," Lance wished after him, wondering which one of them had the harder job.

He continued to sit with Keith on the dining room chairs until it simply became too uncomfortable to hold him that way anymore. Keith's full weight was on him now, and Lance wasn't completely sure that Keith was even still awake. Lance didn't want to move, didn't want to disturb Keith, but he could feel a sort of spasm starting in his lower back and thought it would be a good time to relocate Keith to his bedroom.

"Keith?" Lance called him gently, beginning to shift them apart without causing Keith to fall. "You awake, Lobito?"

Keith nodded a little but made no sound. Lance kept his hands on his shoulders, holding him as he stood up. "Let's get more comfortable. Come on. Can you move or should I call Hunk to help us?"

Still silent, Keith dragged himself to his feet, using both the table and Lance as support. Just looking at his posture made Lance weary all through his own body, as though Keith's physical and emotional exhaustion were bleeding into him through contact. Hunk heard their movements and came to help, but Keith waved him off to go back to what he'd been doing, never even raising his head to look at him.

"Lance? Where's Shiro?" Hunk entreated, also thrown off balance by Keith's weird, almost oppressive silence.

"He had a meeting with Keith's lawyer," Lance answered. "He'll be back later - probably tomorrow morning."

"You guys good?" Hunk went on, watching them with a distressed expression on his face. 

"We're tired." Lance didn't notice until after it had come out of his mouth that he'd just referred to Keith as part of himself. There was no Keith and Lance anymore. They were a unit now, like Pidge was with Hunk. Feeling the same things, connected on the same wave length. He hadn't really noticed, but it had happened. Somewhere during the course of the last couple days, or maybe just in the last couple hours, a connection had formed that streamlined Lance's emotions to Keith's. Now that he'd noticed it was there, Lance wondered how long it would last.

"I'm making you some tea," Hunk stated more than offered, watching them cross the hallway into Lance's room, his voice betraying how unsettled he felt. There was such a heaviness in the apartment now, the combined effect of the snow, Pidge and Lance's falling out, the dread of the hearing, and Keith's unrelenting fever. It cast a tangible shadow over their once cozy and warm threshold. Hunk making tea seemed an almost religious gesture, a ceremony to cleanse the air of the harsh darkness that weighed them down.

"That would be nice," Lance accepted readily, relieved that Hunk had stayed, that he was still here with them. That he was continually helpful. "Thanks, Hunk." He almost asked about Pidge, if Hunk had spoken to her, if he'd made any headway in getting her to come back. But he knew it was too soon, something he would have to wait to bring up, at least until after Keith was safe under blankets and sleeping.

Keith unexpectedly reached out to Hunk as he made to slip past them at the junction where the hallway, living room, and tiny walkway to Lance's door all met together. It made Hunk pause, looking first to where Keith's hand barely touched his arm, then up to meet his gaze.

"What's up, buddy?" Hunk asked him, trying to keep his voice light, though Lance could see that Keith's behavior was freaking him out. "Change your mind? I can still carry you the rest of the way if you want."

"No," Keith denied the offer, the first word he'd spoken in what seemed like hours, and Hunk tried hard not to show rejection in his face. "But . . . thank you. Lance is right; you really are the best." Again, Hunk restrained himself – this time from grabbing Keith too tight. Instead, he patted him gently on the shoulder, smiling warmly at him.

"Hold off until you see my bill," Hunk joked, though Lance could see how touched he was at the compliment. Lance was pleased at Keith's expression of gratitude, but it also worried him. It felt too much like a good-bye, like Keith was trying to set his affairs in order. As if he truly believed that this would be his last night.

Hunk separated from them into the kitchen while Lance half-carried Keith the remaining steps into his room where he helped him under the covers.

"It's so dark in here," Keith observed, voice quiet, almost mournful. Lance switched on his lamp, giving a dull illumination to the small space, understanding Keith's need for it to not be completely black, but not wanting so much light that it would hurt Keith's chances for resting.

"You should try and get some sleep," Lance recommended, stretching his back now that Keith's weight was off of him.

"I don't think I can," Keith responded, sounding like a man already condemned. Unwilling to waste any of his final hours of freedom on something so trivial as sleep. Lance understood the motive, even though he disagreed about its practicality.

"That's why I said try to sleep instead of go to sleep," Lance reiterated in another attempt to lighten the mood. "It makes your success based on attempt not outcome."

Keith almost smiled before being dragged back down by despair. Lance pulled out his desk chair, pushing the power button on his computer so he could restart his soothing piano soundtrack. Maybe that would help.

"It's always about the outcome," Keith pointed out miserably. "No one cares about the attempt."

"You did the right thing, Keith," Lance assured him, perhaps a little harshly, but he was completely convinced on this point and needed Keith to understand. "The jury will see it too."

"No," Keith replied, sounding on the verge of a final confession. "That's the worst part, you know? It might have been the right thing, but I didn't do it for the right reason, and that's why. . that's why I should go to prison for it." Lance turned from his start up screen to give Keith his full attention, sensing that this was important for Keith to say, to tell someone. That it was hurting him somehow to hold this information secret. It also sounded like something else that Lance wasn't certain he wanted the responsibility of knowing. What else could Keith possibly have to say about what happened? There couldn't be anything left. And yet, Lance could see it in Keith's face, an undisclosed memory, an overpowering feeling. Guilt that was eating into him like poison.

"Ok," Lance invited, preparing himself for yet another mental shock, getting closer to Keith, going down to his knees by the bed. "I'm hanging on to my right to disagree with that, but do you want to tell me?" Because he had offered that to Keith on Friday, before he knew anything. If you're going through something, you can talk to me about it. That's what he said, innocently thinking that there couldn't be anything Keith could say that would change how Lance reacted to taking care of him. He still thought that, but he still felt uneasy about how Keith was talking. How could he think he deserved to go to prison?

"You looked at the file, right?" Keith checked, lying on his back on Lance's bed, one of his arms draped over his eyes, blocking his sight as though he needed to be blind to be able to speak.

"I . . . did," Lance said slowly, wondering what Keith was getting at, hoping he wasn't upset about Lance looking at the file when he'd said he wouldn't. "I was trying to help; I'm sorry." 

"You don't have to apologize," Keith said, rather shortly, then appeared to force himself to relax, to speak calmly again even though it was obviously hard for him. Moving back to what he'd originally intended to say. "But you saw the photos? You saw what I did to him?"

Lance didn't want to remember, but the images came back to him immediately as Keith referenced them. David's swollen, bloodied face. The broken nose, the fractured jaw, the badly bruised eye. Why did Keith want to talk about this now?

"You did what you had to, Keith," Lance told him neutrally, trying to keep any judgment or horror out of his voice. "I know that."

"No," Keith denied, gathering courage and strength to sit up, eyes fever-bright and burning into Lance. What was he doing? "It wasn't like that. I didn't have to do all that; I wanted to hurt him."

Lance involuntarily cleared his throat, holding himself motionless by the bed, trying not to cower under Keith's sudden intensity.

"Why are you telling me this?" Lance asked. Was this another assault test on the boundaries of Lance's offered friendship? Another attempt to push Lance away? What kind of assurance was Keith after by giving Lance this information?

"Because you need to understand. You and Shiro . . . you keep trying to see something good in me. God, sometimes you try so hard, I almost believe there might be something there to find. But that just makes it harder."

Because for some reason, for some people, kindness hurts more than cruelty. Because if you've convinced yourself that you somehow deserve all the awful that happens in your life, it makes it easier to accept it. But if someone else, someone outside your own mind, tells you that it's not right, that you don't deserve it, it makes the pain worse. That's what was happening here. Keith believed he was doomed, that he was going to prison in the morning. And as long as he thought that he was a criminal, that his punishment was justified in some twisted way, he could let it happen, allow himself to be taken. He felt the situation was hopeless, so he didn't want Shiro or Lance to give him anything that even resembled hope or kindness or comfort. Not because he didn't really want it, but because he knew it would hurt more to have it taken away, like everything else he'd ever desired for himself. It was so sad.

"So you want me to treat you the way everyone else does?" Lance asked, surprised how disinterested his voice sounded, how far away. "Like you can't do anything right; you're just a waste of time? That you deserve to be cast aside, locked up and forgotten - like you're dangerous? Like I'm afraid of you?"

"But you are afraid of me," Keith pointed out.

"I was," Lance admitted. "Now I'm just afraid for you."

Keith broke eye contact, overcome, while Lance pushed himself up onto the edge of the bed. He might not be doing Keith any favors here, but he just couldn't stand for him to think that he deserved how he'd been treated. Not just for the trial, but by all the people in his past who had failed him, hurt him, judged him, made assumptions about him. They were all wrong, and Lance hated that he used to be one of them.

"How can you be like that?" Keith demanded, not the first time he'd asked Lance this question, as if he just couldn't wrap his head around how different Lance behaved toward him. "I'm not a good person; I hurt people, Lance, and . . I like doing it."

"Of course you do," Lance accepted without hesitation. "You specialize in pain; that's mostly all that anyone has ever given you, but that doesn't mean you're a bad person. It means you weren't given much of a choice about what kind of a person you could be."

"They had to drag me off of him, Lance. I couldn't even see him anymore; I'd forgotten how it even started. . . it just felt so good to keep going."

Lance could only smile sadly at Keith's continued protests about how terrible he was. It hurt too much not to. He opened his mouth to say something, but was having a hard time figuring out how to express his thoughts into words, or at least into words that Keith would accept. Any superficial protests to what Keith thought of himself would not sink in enough to be effective. He was too thoroughly injured by his previous experiences, and it seemed all Lance had were tiny bandages and too little time to apply them. Keith behaved exactly how everyone believed he would. He'd been told he was no good so much that he couldn't see himself any other way.

"_Todos sueñan lo que son_," Lance recited from the monologue in a whisper as he slowly tipped his head up to study Keith. "_Aunque ninguno lo entiende_."

"What are you saying?" Keith asked, tired and frustrated, but Lance shook his head. He'd just gained a sudden clarity about that line but it was way too abstract to try and translate the meaning.

"You couldn't see him because you weren't hitting him," Lance tried to explain instead. "It had nothing to do with him anymore; it was all about transferring pain. Yours. I'm sure it did feel good to let that go, to finally have a reason to get it out of you. You're not a bad person, Keith. You didn't just attack someone randomly without cause. He was doing something wrong, something that could have been so much worse if you hadn't stepped in. You didn't even attack; you asked him to stop. He hit you first."

"But I killed him."

"No, Keith, you didn't. I looked at the scans; Dr. Delacroix looked at the scans. Trying to pin this on you is the biggest stretch in medical history. Statistically, the chances that his death had anything to do with you are less than two percent."

"But," Keith continued to protest, beginning to crumble in front of Lance, torn between which would be worse – actually being responsible for killing someone and being sent to prison for it, or being completely innocent and still ending up in prison. Lance preferred option three, where Keith believed his own innocence and so did everyone else. "Two percent. Then what . .?"

"Genetics, probably," Lance almost shrugged but remembered that this was very important for Keith, that they were still talking about someone's life. Still, he kept his tone dry, factual, so Keith couldn't determine that it was only Lance's own emotions trying to make this right for him. Because it wasn't. It was just the simple truth. "Combined with his own poor health choices. Reasons that can't be seen, can't be fought or punished. And just like you were transferring your pain to him; his parents are transferring theirs to you. It's not right, in either case, what you all actually need is a lot of therapy, but you didn't take David's life . . . so they shouldn't be allowed to ruin yours."

"Dr. Delacroix looked at the scans?" Keith didn't seem to know what to think or say; his face full of questions, a wreck of disbelief.

"Yes, Keith, the most respected trauma doctor in the city looked at the scans," Lance emphasized. "We went over them together this morning while you were asleep. And we both agree – not only should you not be put in prison for this, you should have never been brought to trial in the first place." 

Hunk entered quietly as Keith was processing this information, tiptoeing into the room as though he could come in, hand them mugs, and then back out without them knowing he was there.

"Sorry, guys, not interrupting," Hunk said as he bent over Lance. "Tea for you, and um, I figured another smoothie would probably be better for you, Keith – except I put ice cream in it. . . so I guess that makes it more a milkshake than a smoothie. Anyway, again, sorry, pretend I'm not here. . . but I am, you know, here . .in the other room if you need anything."

Lance smiled gently at Hunk as he closed the door ever so softly behind him, then returned his attention to Keith, who was staring, bewildered and lost, at the insulated glass Hunk had handed to him.

"There are more people on your side than you think," Lance told Keith, leaning over to set his steaming mug safely on his desk to cool a little before he tried to drink it. "But it's probably hard to accept anyone's belief in you . . . when you haven't been able to believe in yourself for so long." 

"Stop," Keith begged, and Lance nodded. Some truths were hard to hear, even when they were good; he should give him a break. "This isn't helping."

Again, Keith had a point. Like with Pidge, sometimes the truth didn't matter. Sometimes innocent people did go to jail. Sometimes innocent children were molded into criminals and taught to believe that they deserved to be hurt for it.

"You don't make any sense," Keith was saying, to himself. Lance forced himself to take a sip of tea so he wouldn't comment on that. He knew he was making almost too much sense, but it would be easier for Keith to think that Lance was completely wrong or unrealistically optimistic. Keith took a drink too, his eyes closing as he swallowed, shuddering a little as the temperature began another round of chills for him. Lance watched him, aching to fix it. All of it. Hating that he couldn't. That all he could do was wait. For Keith's immune system to do what it was supposed to do. For the legal system to do what it was supposed to do.

"Why couldn't I have met you a long time ago?" Keith wished, again almost too quietly to hear. That thought almost doubled him over, something else hitting him hard, causing him to physically cringe. "Shiro," Keith muttered, and Lance understood. He was regretting the lost time there when he'd been avoiding Shiro over a different misunderstanding. Realizing that it didn't have to happen that way if he hadn't been so sure that Shiro didn't want him.

"Do you really think it wasn't my fault?" Keith asked Lance, as if he needed to hear it one more time. Or a hundred more times.

"It's almost impossible for it to have been your fault," Lance assured him, wishing that this truth didn't cause Keith to look even more hopeless.

"They made it sound . . . they were so sure," Keith whispered, shivering, very far away. He looked as though all his memories were rearranging themselves as everything he'd believed for the last few weeks flipped. He'd thought he had killed someone, but he hadn't. He'd thought Shiro didn't want anything to do with him, but he'd been trying to adopt him. He looked ready to shut down again like he had at the table.

"You're going to have a future, Keith," Lance promised him, hoping to keep him from sinking too far, from some sort of mental snap. "After tomorrow, or whenever this hearing thing is over . . . it's going to get better for you. I know it. You have a family now. You and Shiro – you can be together like you always wanted to be. You won't have to check in with anyone unless you want to. You'll be free."

"I can't afford to think like that," Keith admitted, sounding as though he were drowning. "You wouldn't even be saying it if you'd been there. If you heard what they said."

"You're right," Lance allowed while still trying to stop Keith from despair. "I didn't hear what they said, but I did hear your lawyer, and I can't imagine anyone getting the better of her. She's pretty badass."

Keith smiled in spite of himself. "You should see her in person," he said.

"Yeah?" Lance followed this topic of conversation eagerly, wanting to talk about something other than Keith's potential upcoming incarceration. "What's she like?" He encouraged more description, partially to distract Keith and partially because he was insanely curious. He shifted his hand from Keith's arm to gently push his glass toward his mouth again, hinting that Keith should drink some more.

"Tall," Keith said, before taking another few swallows. "Taller than you, but slim, like really thin."

"Is she always so intense like that? Or was that just because she was worried about you?"

"No, she's always like that. The first time I met her, she came to get me from. . . from jail." Keith almost cracked under this detail, but glossed over it quickly and Lance let him, though he was curious about that too. "She picked me up in her Mazda like we were in some kind of action movie – shifting gears, talking on the phone, and eating a cheeseburger at the same time." The way Keith spoke of Krolia, Lance wondered if he'd put her at the same level of respect that he held Shiro. Or at least very close. "I thought we were going to her office or something, but she drove us to this gym and we did a couple games of racquetball. And she still talked nonstop, never broke a sweat, and never missed a shot."

"Wow," Lance complimented. "And I bet I'd be even more impressed if I knew what racquetball was."

"Oh," Keith paused in his memories. "You guys don't do . . . it's kind of like tennis? But there's no net and you stand on the same side. . ." Lance must have looked clueless, because Keith cut off, taking another drink. "I'll teach you; it's fun."

Lance felt some tension leave him as he heard Keith expressing that something could be fun. Also that he had just unconsciously made a plan for the future. It didn't last long because Keith immediately realized what he'd said, and he darkened again, staring off at nothing.

"You know what my dad used to say?" Lance offered. Keith looked at him, but seemed to have exhausted all his words. "He would tell me that worrying about problems before they were problems only made it so I had more problems."

"That is such a dad thing to say," Keith murmured.

"Yeah, but he was right," Lance acknowledged. "I know it's awful, waiting to see what will happen, but it's not helping you to worry about it." In fact, Lance suspected that it was part of the reason it was taking Keith so long to get better.

"It's so hard not to," Keith admitted. "Lance, it was so bad."

"No, stop, don't think about that," Lance interrupted, not wanting to lose all the progress they'd made. "Take another drink; pay attention to the taste. I'm going to turn on some music for you. Tell me some more about racquetball or Krolia or . . anything."

Keith took a deep breath, and Lance could see the mental struggle as he tried to do what Lance instructed. He could see how tired he was, how completely drained. How was Lance supposed to calm him down enough to sleep? He really needed it.

"It's going to be ok," Lance assured him again, convinced he couldn't say it too often.

"At least one of us thinks so," Keith said, gratitude mixed with the worry and weariness in his eyes.

"I'm pretty sure Shiro thinks so too," Lance told him. Keith had a tired, bittersweet sort of smile just touching the corners of his mouth, as though he were humoring Lance in his fantasy about how the world worked. He surprised Lance by lifting his hand, barely brushing the back of it against the bruise on his cheek.

"I don't understand," Keith thought out loud. "How can you believe in me after I did this to you?"

"It's simple," Lance explained, trying to channel some of Shiro's patience, reminding himself that one conversation, however earnest, wasn't going to erase all the years of negative conditioning Keith had already been through. "You did this on instinct after being provoked. It's called a startle reflex, and you can't control it. I'm kind of glad about it, honestly, because if it hadn't happened like that, I probably wouldn't have thought to check on you. We wouldn't be friends now."

"That's a real shitty way of making friends," Keith maintained, still gloomy. "And I'm not being a very good one. I've . . never really had one before. I don't think I know how."

"I thought you were going to teach me how to play racquetball – that's friendly," Lance tossed out, desperate to keep this light, but then deciding to be honest and vulnerable again. "And you are a good friend, Keith. I've been feeling a little selfish about it, really."

"What? Why?" Keith demanded, incredulous. "I haven't done anything but ruin your life. I cost you a date, almost your place in the med program . . . maybe your friendship with Pidge. Your face . . . your back."

"Keith, stop; you've got to quit doing this to yourself. It wasn't that solid of a date, tell you the truth. Nothing bad happened with the med program; you said yourself that it might lead to a mentorship position under Dr. Delacroix, so hey, that's a huge benefit if I wanted to take it. Pidge just needs some time; it's more because she hates being wrong than anything to do with me or you. You haven't ruined my life, Keith."

"Lance," Keith began to protest, but Lance didn't want to hear it.

"You realize I basically kidnapped you," Lance told him. "Just came and scooped you up, and you just went with that like it wasn't the weirdest thing in the world to do. The entire time we've known each other, you've been extremely sick and hurting, literally fighting for your life and freedom, but the only things you're worried about, even in the hospital, are my career and a scratch on my back? You could barely move, but you were trying to make me feel better about the bad news I heard from my family. And . . I've never told anyone those things I told you about my family, never told anyone about Rachel before. Just you and Shiro. And I wouldn't have told Shiro if you hadn't been trying to comfort me about her even _in your sleep_. You've been worrying about me, putting your trust in me, trying to help me feel better, and my God, Keith, I can't imagine the amazing person you are when you're strong and well and healthy if this is what you're like when you are suffering so much. I don't know how I got so damn lucky."

"Would you shut up?" Keith begged, and Lance obeyed, letting him breathe. "You talk more than Krolia."

Lance decided to give him some space for a few minutes, so he busied himself with gathering their empty glasses and mugs, taking them to the kitchen and washing them, noticing how Hunk had put the apartment to bed for the night. Door locked, counters wiped, thermostat turned down. Everything familiar, but at the same time not. Like this weekend had been the beginning of a huge shift in all of their lives, something they would never come back from. It would all be different from now on. Lance didn't like it. It felt uneasy and distressing to him. He'd gotten used to his life as it was, the rhythm. He felt secure in the routine. He didn't like standing here in the dark, forced to wait and see what would happen. See if Pidge and Hunk were moving to California, if Pidge would forgive him. See if Dr. Delacroix truly wanted to apprentice him in the ER. See if he would see Allura on Wednesday and have another chance with her. See if his mother would be ok, or at least ok long enough for him to be able to put himself into a better position to help her. See if Keith would be found guilty in the morning, or maybe not because he also had to wait and see if Shiro and Krolia had been able to move that meeting.

So much uncertainty. So much waiting. He could hardly stand it. He gave himself a minute more, looking around the front part of the apartment at the things that didn't change. The crocheted afghan on the back of the couch. The boxes of electronic pieces under the partial wall between the kitchen and living room. The medical bag that Lance had left beside the couch. The camp chair drowning in coats and hats. But even those things weren't truly permanent. Lance felt a hazy, exhausted slipperiness shiver into his soul, icy as the draft from the balcony door, and just like that, he'd hit his limit on how long he could be alone. He took long strides toward the light shining weakly from his bedroom, taking his bag with him to get one last set of stats before Keith fell asleep.

Keith was curled on his side, shivering, but when he heard Lance coming in, he tried to straighten, began moving to sit up again.

"Stay down, Keith; I know you're worn out," Lance advised, knowing that they'd been talking for probably too long, gone over too many emotional exhausting topics. "We're just going to do a quick stat check, and then it's bedtime."

"Has Shiro called yet?" Keith asked, relaxing as much as it was possible for him to relax onto the mattress again. Which actually wasn't much.

"No, not yet," Lance replied, disappointed in himself that he couldn't give better news, or any news at all. "They probably have a lot to talk about, though. It'll take a while?"

"I . . . don't want to go back to jail," Keith admitted, sounding frightened.

"Krolia won't let it happen," Lance assured, checking Keith's temperature, disappointed and yet relieved to see it was back to 102.7, even with the sun down. "Now get some rest, ok?"

"Lance?"

"Yeah, _querido_?" He didn't know why he called Keith that; it had just sort of slipped out without him thinking about it. He hoped that Keith didn't know what it meant, or that Keith was too caught up in whatever he was thinking about to really notice. There was being open and honest, and then there was being too open. Lance hid his embarrassment by taking Keith's wrist, noticing the spike in heart rate, Keith's slight gasp at being touched. Still so fast. "What is it?"

"I really don't feel good."

It was such an obvious statement, but Lance knew how hard it had been for Keith to say it. Lance shifted his hand from Keith's wrist to his palm, holding onto him comfortingly, though he sensed that it wasn't quite enough.

"You know," Lance said, not sure about what he was offering or really who it was truly for. "When Pidge was sick, all she wanted was for Hunk to hold her. I don't know if it was the position or just having him there with her or what, but it really seemed to help. I'm not quite as . . . soft as Hunk is, but . . .maybe we could try?"

There was resistance in Keith's expression about this plan, but it crumpled quickly into a sort of desperation. He was at the point where he'd try just about anything to get some relief, no matter how embarrassing or strange it may be. Lance didn't wait for him to agree; he'd already seen his answer.

"Come here," Lance invited, first assisting Keith in sitting up so he could slide onto the bed with him, pushing himself tight into the corner, bracing himself as much as possible so he could maintain whatever position they ended up in, forcing himself not to wince as the wall pushed against his wounded back. He settled at an angle in the bed, bringing Keith backward, not in his lap, but draped sort of over it. Keith readily rested his head against Lance's chest again, reclined against him, hot, trembling, and scared. Though he did seem to be breathing easier now. "How's this?" Lance asked him. "Ok?"

"Thank you," was the sort of answer. Lance pulled the blanket over them both, though he knew he'd be suffocating in a few minutes between the quilt and Keith's extreme heat.

"Sure. Is there anything else I can do?"

"Could . . could you say that poem again?"

"Easy enough," Lance agreed, rubbing his hand slowly up and down. Everything seemed to slow, the way it does in the dark, and this time Lance was sort of happy about that. Because this could be the last night where his life was anything like the normal he was used to. Tomorrow could take Keith away from him, in a surprising variety of ways. And he wasn't ready.

"_Sueña el rey que es rey_," Lance began, the soft and steady rhythm he wanted Keith to breathe in, reciting the revelation of a fictional prince kept prisoner that nothing in life is truly real, that everything is just a dream – all fortune, good and bad, simply shadows of thought, created subconsciously by the dreamer. He knew Keith didn't understand a word of it, though he found it appropriate that he seemed to be drawn to it. Keith and Segismundo – both wrongfully incarcerated. Both their personalities forcibly molded by the incorrect assumptions of those around them. Both lashing out in pain.

Segismundo's story ends with him gaining his freedom and becoming the king of Poland. For Keith, Lance would settle for keeping him in his life long enough to make good on his racquetball promise.

**Author's Note: How did we like our little taste of Krolia? (Oh, she's delicious.) And our boys . . . so comfy and cozy together. Getting so close. It'd be a shame if that got messed up, huh?**

**I know I've kept you waiting for a very long time, but next chapter is going to be everything you've been waiting for. More Krolia, the outcome of the verdict hearing, Stuff That's Been Driving You Nuts. Or maybe just me. (Am I the only one losing sleep to this thing?)**

**As always, I sincerely welcome your thoughts. **


	21. Neuroscience

**Author's Note: Nothing but gratitude from me guys. Thanks for reading and writing to me. Thanks for staying with me as we slog slowly and slowly towards the hearing and the verdict. And all that will come afterward. I love writing this story, and I love hearing from all of you. Let's go.**

**Chapter Twenty-One: Neuroscience**

Lance found himself admiring Hunk more and more as he sat pinned to the corner by Keith. Once situated in Lance's arms, it had taken Keith less than five minutes to fall asleep, all his weight leaning into Lance, who tried to match Keith's slowed breathing, tried not to fidget underneath him. Hunk had been able to sit completely motionless with Pidge for hours, all his muscles trained on the effort to make her as comfortable as possible. Lance felt disappointed in himself that this was so difficult for him to do. His back hurt, a deep ache from the position and the weight and the aggravation of the wound from the coffee table; it kept him anything but motionless. Keith was unbearably hot under the quilt, stifling Lance, dragging the minutes ever longer as Lance desperately tried to find something to focus on. He looked around his bedroom, the med bag on the floor, the screensaver on his computer, the dresser, the tiny bookcase. The beach photos and postcards that he'd collected over the months and plastered all over his walls. The piano music he'd selected to be soothing did nothing to distract him, though intimately studying Keith as he slept seemed to do the trick – at least for a while.

Lance looked carefully down at Keith's hands, curled gently on his chest, noticing each tiny scar, the length of the fingers, the minute bruise at the wrist from the IV. He watched what the dim light did to Keith's hair as he stroked it, curling his fingers through and around the strands in a method that he would have never tried if Keith had been awake. He pulled everything off the back of Keith's neck so he could look at the burn scars, wondering if they were the reason Keith kept his hair the length it was. He rubbed Keith's back, whispering to him in Spanish, reassurances, favorite nursery rhymes of his youth, things he'd like to show Keith after this was all over. If Keith didn't disappear.

Through it all, Keith rested still and silent, reminding Lance that there was a purpose to the discomfort of the position. It was helping Keith be calm; it was keeping at bay the dark dreams and traumas that haunted him in his sleep. Despite knowing this, Lance wished he could move. A guilty, almost constant thought that made him cling to Keith every few moments as he remembered, again, that this may be the last night Keith would be with him. He should enjoy this while it lasted because everything could change tomorrow. Keith could be gone.

Lance didn't know why that hurt him so much. The few days of his life where Keith had been present had been so tumultuous that he was actually surprised how he didn't want them to end. He tried to tell himself that it was only because Keith needed him, more than any of Lance's other patients. Once that aspect of their relationship was removed, Lance hoped that it wouldn't be quite so hard to think of Keith being somewhere else. Provided that somewhere else wasn't prison. But even thinking of Keith being completely happy in his new life with Shiro didn't sit well with Lance either. He couldn't really be jealous of Shiro? That would just be wrong. But then again, so was the reason that Lance didn't want Keith to leave.

He didn't want to admit to himself that Pidge might have been right, though she was so often right, and he sort of hated that she had put the thought into his head. Or that she'd brought it more to his attention; he was no longer sure what had come first, the emotion or the suggestion that it was present. How it had started wasn't as important as how much he couldn't keep it out of his mind right now. That he might be falling in love with Keith. He didn't want to think about it, but Lance indulgently pressed a small kiss on one of the burn scars, forced himself to be still a few more agonizing minutes, and couldn't help but think about it. He shouldn't do things like that, though. Even though he no longer had to worry about starting a relationship with a murderer; there were several other huge and heavy obstacles to this. There was no happy future here. He couldn't do that to his mother, for one thing. His sweet, sacrificing, devoutly Catholic, widowed mother who expected him to find an equally sweet, devoutly Catholic girl to marry and give her those ten grandchildren he'd been promising her his entire life. What would that do to her if he told her that he was . . . Lance was fortunate enough that he didn't have to pretend to be attracted to girls for his mother's sake. . . but he'd known for a long time now that he was just as attracted to . . .

But even if he were attracted to Keith, like actually attracted to him and this wasn't some weird symptom of Keith's illness all on its own, and even if his family would be perfectly all right with it - how likely was it that Keith could even return his feelings? It was a bad idea, such a self-destructive bad idea; he should try and talk himself out of it – what would be the point of falling in love with someone who probably couldn't love him back like that? A relationship he couldn't even imagine how he'd tell his family about. A relationship with someone who was just barely figuring out how to be proper friends, who could barely muster the trust for a basic, unromantic friendship. Who would probably disappear in the morning, leaving Lance's life as unexpectedly as he'd entered it. It was a huge disaster in the making. Lance was just asking to be emotionally shattered if he dropped his guard too much, allowed himself to consider the possibility. And yet . . he held Keith closer. He smelled like Lance's soap, and heat, and misery.

Lance sat there conflicted in the lamplight of his room, worried about the morning, listening to the wind blowing outside, listening to the piano and the artificial rain, listening to Pidge in his mind as she teased and chastised him about Keith then screamed and pleaded with him about Keith. He held Keith tight in his arms, nuzzling his chin over the nape of his neck, rubbing his back and pretending that it had everything to do with keeping Keith comfortable and nothing to do with how much Lance wanted to stay near him, to touch him. . . . even at the same time it tormented him on a variety of levels, physical and otherwise.

"_Mi vida era tan fácil antes de que vinieras_," Lance whisper / sighed at Keith. Well, maybe that wasn't quite fair. His life wasn't easy, but it had made more sense before Keith. He'd been accustomed to its challenges and moved easily within them. "_Pero no quiero que me dejes_."

Through it all, the back and forth frenzy of Lance's thoughts, the uncomfortable twitching and shifting underneath him, Keith remained peacefully unaware. Lance figured he should be grateful that at least one of them could rest, but he was even more grateful when his phone rang, giving him the excuse of finally disengaging from Keith and the bed to answer it. Keith groaned a little as Lance carefully settled him on the pillow, but he surprisingly didn't wake up. Lance congratulated himself on improving his new sneaking-out-from-under-sleeping-Keith skill, surprised at how often the need for it was coming up. It took a while, though, so by the time Lance was free to pick up the phone he'd left charging on his desk, he'd missed the call. Predictably from Shiro – who had sent Lance a series of text messages when Lance didn't answer.

I hope you guys are sleeping, the first text read.  
Call me if you need to. Hearing is still on; no way to change it. I'll be there around 8 to pick Keith up. Get some rest. Thanks.

Lance noticed the time, surprisingly not even eleven yet, though it felt like he must have been trapped on that bed and within his own thoughts for hours. He checked Keith, pleased that he still seemed peaceful lying there without Lance holding him. He thought he'd take advantage of that and started moving. First, he replied to Shiro to let him know that everything was fine at the apartment, that Keith was resting at least, and promised to keep him updated if that changed. Then he took a shower, a very quick one since he didn't want to leave Keith alone too long, but he also wanted to clean the hospital off of him too. He knew he should probably get some sleep, but it just seemed such a waste of the time he had remaining. He didn't want to sleep. And as much as he wanted a future, the uncertainty of what it would bring to him made him wish that the night would never end.

When he returned to his room, it seemed that Keith had somehow subconsciously noticed that he was alone. He'd curled up again, tight, his features no longer quite so calm but not distressed either. Lance dressed, wrapped himself in the couch afghan, and sat at his desk, keeping an eye on Keith as he started typing. Because as much as he wished, the morning was coming, and he needed to prepare for it.

The first time he'd attempted the biography assignment, he'd been forced to make up everything about Keith. He didn't know a single thing about him apart from his name. Now he knew more, so much more, but the information felt too special to share. Prof. Gibbon didn't deserve to know the truth, not for something as unimportant as this assignment. Or at least not all of the truth. Still, Lance felt he should turn something in, so he typed a new crisply-MLA-formatted version of Keith's life, still almost completely fabricated, though much softer in tone than the first rage-filled draft. Keith had been orphaned at a young age, but he'd been raised by his older brother. He'd moved around a lot. His favorite sport was racquetball. He loved planes and planned to join the military. He was pretty open for adventures – new experiences, new food. He was not afraid to do what was right, even in situations where he could be hurt for it. Lance barely made the word count, but felt satisfied by his attempt. Felt that he'd presented a decently credible portrait of Keith while still protecting him.

He attached both the Word and PDF files of the document to an email, where he let his teacher know that he probably wouldn't be attending class in the morning. He'd be helping Shiro get Keith ready for court somehow, but he didn't say that either. He went on lying to all his Monday class instructors, and his supervisor at the donation center, in four separate emails and in two different languages – he told them all that he wasn't feeling well. Please find attached the assignment. Can I please reschedule my oral presentation? I hope to be back to normal by Tuesday; sorry for leaving you short-handed. He wondered if his dance teacher would even notice he was missing, but he sent the email anyway.

Because he knew that tomorrow he'd be absolutely worthless. He may not actually be coming down with anything, but the part where he didn't feel well was not a lie. His emotions were twisted around Keith and what would happen to him. Lance didn't know what he would do if Keith were found guilty. He didn't know what he would do if he were found innocent either. But he did know that either way, tomorrow was going to be one of the hardest in his life.

He finished the emails and was just beginning to wonder what he should do now to distract himself from his own exhaustion when his phone chirped again, another text message. It was after midnight now, closer to one, so Lance was surprised that Shiro would still be awake and sending him messages. But this text wasn't from Shiro.

Can I come up?

"Pidge," Lance breathed, and tossed the afghan aside to hurry down the stairs to the front entrance, not bothering to take the time for a reply or to even put on any shoes. She'd come back after all, though she'd picked an unpromising time for it. How had she known that anyone would even be awake to let her in?

Or maybe she had just taken a chance on that. Maybe she thought that she'd come to the door and then have to go back home anyway. It seemed that was the case, since she had already started walking away by the time he got down to her. He threw the door open, leaning out into the cold, the snow still falling.

"Pidge!" He yelled after her, not being able to chase her down since he had to keep hold of the door or let them both be locked out. She paused hesitantly, as though she didn't believe she'd heard anything over the wind, but she did check over her shoulder and he waved wildly at her, beckoning her inside. Please come back; the apartment got so dark after you left it. Her face crumpled into pained relief as she returned to the entrance, though she walked as though forcing herself forward, like she wasn't quite sure she would be welcomed, like she was preparing for a rebuke or another argument.

"Hey," she greeted, dedicatedly nonchalant, as though this were normal, just another day. "I saw your light on. Everything ok up there?"

"It's better now," he said, physically pulling her into the lobby, sealing them from the snow outside. It seemed she'd been out so long that she didn't notice the cold anymore, didn't notice how it had stiffened all her limbs. Or maybe that had nothing to do with the cold. "Pidge, for heaven's sake, what are you doing wandering around in the snow at one in the morning? I thought you'd gone home a long time ago," Lance decided to give her a tiny fragment of reproach, though for something completely unrelated to what she thought she was in trouble for. He couldn't bring himself to be angry at her; she looked too forlorn, cold and lost. Their argument must have shaken her hard to force her out into the elements in the middle of the night, checking his window to see if he were still awake or not – miserable enough that she'd seek his company even after he'd shouted at her.

"I did go home, but I couldn't sleep and I couldn't sit still. I figured if anyone else was still awake, it'd be you," she said, unable to look at him, seeming frozen to the spot he'd left her, as if blocked by some barrier between them that only she could see.

"Yeah, I . . . I've got stuff to do," Lance excused himself, knowing that no matter where they were, opposite sides of a debate, she would understand what he meant and how it had more to do with how he felt than what actually needed to get done. "Did you want company? Because I could use some, if it's ok."

For the first time since they'd started talking, Pidge looked up into his face, eyes large and hurt and a blend of wanting to be forgiven but not before she'd taken some sort of verbal beating that she felt she deserved. Not something Lance wanted to give to her, though. He wasn't one to hold grudges, and he was too happy to see her to pick at emotional wounds that might send her away from him again.

"Lance, I'm sorry," she apologized in a rush, lowering her head. Her next sentence garbled up in her mouth, which meant she was probably trying to tell him that either he'd been right or she'd been wrong (both versions were difficult for her).

"Come on," he told her, taking her hand, ignoring her apology. Because it wasn't necessary. "Come upstairs; the couch is free for you."

"Lance, I -" she tried again, but he shook his head, pulling her toward the elevator. He didn't need her to say it, not even the first time.

"We'll talk inside," he half-promised. He didn't want her apology and he didn't know if he could continue their conversation if she still thought she needed to drive some points home. "After you warm up. How long were you outside looking at my light anyway?"

"I don't know," she confessed, having a hard time looking at him again. "An hour? Maybe a little more."

"You were outside my window for an hour? Why didn't you call me sooner?" Lance chastised gently, pushing the elevator button and tugging Pidge close to his side, forcing them to behave as they normally did. Because it seemed she needed physical permission at every step to be next to him, to go to the apartment where she practically lived. She had an extra toothbrush there; a section of Hunk's closet held her clothes. But now she was acting like they were strangers. . . . all because of what? Guilt? Rage? Had Keith cracked apart their friendship that much?

"I needed to sort some things out first," she told him, her voice edgy. Not mad, or at least not at him. Yet. "I guess I'm so used to things being a certain way, and you being a certain way, but then nothing was like that and it was this huge shift and I . .needed to wrap my head around it." She shrugged while Lance tried to figure out what she meant. "I didn't really notice what I was doing or where I was, but when I woke up, I was standing under your window. Guess your apartment is my default setting."

"You didn't have to leave," Lance reminded her, opening the door to the dark apartment and dragging her back into the warmth.

"No, I did," she denied, though there was no longer any heat to her contradiction.

"Well, I'm glad you came back then," he said, unzipping her coat as she looked around the quiet living room, as though it had changed somehow during her absence, as though she'd never seen it before. She seemed so delicate all of a sudden, which was strange because Pidge never seemed all that delicate. She was not fragile; she was fierce and determined and set. She wanted to talk, but he didn't know if that was a good idea. He wanted to pretend nothing had happened between them, but knew she'd never allow it. He just hoped he wouldn't be the only one making conversational compromises.

"I did some more research, Lance," Pidge started talking, not even noticing that he was taking her coat off for her. She stood rigidly right where he'd let go of her hand, just inside the door, her eyes downcast. Obviously, she wanted to talk more about Keith and what had happened, but he wasn't sure if he could handle getting into another argument about that right now. Or hearing any more details about it. He just wanted to be here with her, together in the apartment, comfortable the way they used to be. He just wanted this last night to be as normal as possible before tomorrow changed everything all over again.

"It doesn't matter, Pidge," he told her firmly. And he meant it – he didn't care what new details she may have uncovered. He was staying loyal to Keith, so there was no point in talking about it, getting frustrated with each other again. Not now. He was so tired, and so was she, and if neither of them could bend on their stances, they needed to just avoid the issue. At least for tonight. Please, just for tonight.

"Let me get you some tea," he continued as he set her coat on the camp chair, turning to light the stove under the kettle and then get the afghan for her, but she grabbed onto his arm, her fingers still icy through his sleeve.

"No, Lance, it does matter, and I don't want tea," she contradicted emphatically. He opened his mouth to stop her, but she shook her head at him, eyes large and betrayed. "I looked up the assault instead of the murder case, and there was a girl that Keith was protecting. The guy had a knife and everything; he sliced open Keith's arm, cracked one of his ribs too. This isn't murder – it's a justifiable homicide. Keith's being profiled; it's the only explanation about why this has been taken so far. You . . . you were right, Lance."

"I know," he said, sad even though she was now agreeing with him, removing her hand so he could at least get her a blanket if she didn't want a warm drink. He decided not to go into how it wasn't really either – not murder or homicide at all, just an extremely unfortunate coincidental death. Because again, it just didn't matter at this point. "Hopefully the jury knows it too."

"I don't know about that; that's the worst place where it doesn't seem to matter," Pidge murmured, her eyes scanning the floor as if she were rereading something she'd found and not liking it. "How is he doing?" She asked, changing the subject. "You know, apart from being wrongfully accused, almost dying, and me being a complete brat to him."

"His fever came down a little bit," Lance reported the small pieces of good news, deciding not to acknowledge most of the self-degradation she'd slid into the conversation. "And his heart is steady, but he's obviously worried about tomorrow, about the hearing. It's taking a lot out of him."

"It shouldn't even be like that!" She almost sounded close to tears about it, and Lance knew that she was mostly berating herself for believing whatever lies she'd found about Keith online. For automatically thinking the worst about him. For not trusting in Lance, for yelling at him for it. She seemed ready to almost overcompensate for that now, defending Keith at all costs. "If their positions had been reversed . . ." she cut off, too mad to speak.

But Lance knew. If it had been Keith trying to force a girl into a car with a knife, and David had stepped in and sent him to the hospital – David would have been called a hero. He'd be interviewed by the news, celebrated, congratulated. Because David's upbringing made everyone think the best of him. And Keith's upbringing did the exact opposite.

"Lance?" He heard his name faintly from his bedroom, and he winced. He'd left Keith too long. He'd woken up alone, perhaps dragged from sleep by Pidge's emphatic outburst. Pidge stared down the hall like the apartment were suddenly haunted, looking as though she'd like to see Keith, but wasn't sure about it.

"Come on," Lance invited, wanting to reintroduce them to each other now that Pidge could see Keith for what he actually was instead of what had been presented to her.

"Wouldn't it be better if just you go?" She hesitated as he stood near the couch, hand out to her as if he would help her cross some emotional bridge into his room.

"I figured we'd take advantage of your apologetic mood while it lasts," Lance said casually, though he knew his statement was anything but casual, knowing it was actually a little cruel, but he also knew that it was just the sort of thing Pidge needed right now. If she didn't feel properly scolded, they were never going to move forward. And if Lance didn't do it, she would do it to herself much worse. "But for your information, he's angrier with himself than with you."

Pidge closed her eyes as the tragedy of that comment struck her psyche. But she did take Lance's offered hand and allowed him to again pull her in a direction she no longer felt she had a right to go. Though she paused at the doorway, unable to cross the threshold into Lance's room ahead of him, needing him to go first. Lance allowed this, one thing at a time, letting go of Pidge and leaving her in the shadowed hall.

"It's all right, Keith," Lance assured, coming back to his side, ready to assess the damage he'd done in leaving him by himself. "Sorry I had to leave you for a minute."

"What's going on? Is it time to go?" Keith asked the questions in rapid succession, looking around, looking worried. He was sitting on the edge of the bed as though he were in the process of trying to get up, eyes rather wild, and panting with effort and fear.

"It's nowhere near time to go; it's the middle of the night," Lance told him gently, even though he could feel the minutes slipping away from them. There wasn't really all that much time left to them. A matter of a few hours. "Lie down now. You should be sleeping."

"But where were you?"

"Oh you know," Lance said lightly, trying to calm the souls on both sides of his door. "Just making sure all my strays are safe and warm for the night." For a second, Keith looked confused, but his face softened into partial relief and understanding.

"Pidge," he said to confirm. "Did you talk to her? She made it home? She's ok?"

"She's home the way I see it, and I think she's ok?" Lance said, unwilling to answer for Pidge. He looked pointedly at her, again reaching out a hand to bring her closer. She narrowed her eyes at him, guilty tears all over her face, clearly visible even in the dark. "Pidge?"

"She's here?" Keith asked another question that he also just wanted confirmed. Lance watched as Pidge jerked herself forward, almost as if the shadows had pushed her from behind. He stood to assist, throwing the afghan around her shoulders and using it to swing her around into his desk chair.

"Presto," Lance said, as though he'd conjured Pidge from the snowstorm; the new and uneasy tension in the room forcing him to be a little weird to counterbalance it. He knew Pidge would notice. He figured Keith wouldn't, but he was unprepared for his true reaction to having Pidge basically slingshot in front of him. The way Keith gazed at her in wonderment, Lance would have thought that he truly believed Lance had performed some sort of summoning spell. They stared at each other in silent discomfort. Both looking hurt. Both looking guilty. Lance was at a loss for what to say to break the pained stalemate. He thought perhaps the best way was to help Keith get his head back down, though like before, Keith seemed set on staying upright in Pidge's presence, forcing an appearance of strength that made no sense to Lance.

"Hi Keith," Pidge was the first to speak, as Lance expected. He stood a little apart from them, retreating to bystander status, or referee status? He leaned against his doorframe, wondering if this is how Hunk felt all the time. He could almost see the unspoken emotions in the room, the broken trust, the silent accusations, the burning apologies, rippling back and forth between Pidge and Keith, hesitant but rapid, a strange and wobbly weaving.

"Hi Pidge," Keith returned, hand on his heart, entering a verbal chess match – pawn meets pawn and suddenly neither can move anymore unless another piece comes from the side. Something Lance wasn't sure about doing yet. Pidge clung to the afghan, holding it also tight against her chest.

"You look terrible," Pidge commented, and Lance prepared to intervene. Or translate? Keith didn't know how Pidge communicated friendship – how most times it sounded like the exact opposite.

"Strays usually do," Keith returned capably, impressing Lance and making Pidge smile, though her lips trembled alarmingly.

"I don't know who I hate most," Pidge confessed, speaking faster as though it would steady her voice. It didn't. Keith struggled to pay attention, to remain sitting up and facing her, understanding that this was important. Lance held his ground, though it was hard to not interject, his insides tangling in the shredded emotional ribbons between his friends who were not friends. Yet. "I hate that jerk for trying to force himself on that girl, and I hate his parents for trying to blame you for him being an asshole. I especially hate her for dating him in the first place and for now just living her spoiled simple little life unbroken and carefree without ever thinking about what happened to you for stepping in and fighting her fight for her, and I hate . . I hate myself for hating you. For thinking I knew everything about you when I really had no idea at all."

"Maybe that's too much hate," Keith suggested wearily after it became obvious that Pidge had run out of things to list, giving Lance the fastest side look, as though he were checking for his approval on how he was handling the conversation. Or maybe he wanted Lance to help him end it? The glance was over before Lance could give him any sort of silent feedback, though Lance wished he could let him know that he was doing very well.

"Maybe," Pidge agreed, quietly, fizzled out. "But there are some things I don't hate."

"Hopefully Hunk made the list," Keith supplied her helpfully, and Lance watched her slump a little, though not in sadness.

"It's not possible to hate Hunk," Pidge admitted. "Or Lance, even though he's a frustrating piece of work most of the time," she continued, twisting her head toward him with one of her normal expressions just under the surface of worn out pain. "And I don't hate you either," she finished, addressing Keith again, somber. "Not anymore."

"Same," Keith accepted, gracious and breathless, hand still covering his heart. Pidge's smile lingered as she gazed on Keith with new affection tinged with concern, but then she toughened up unexpectedly.

"But if you ever mess up Lance's pretty face like that again, or hurt him in any other way, at all, I will eviscerate you, got it?" Pidge slammed the threat between them like flipping on a switch to an electric chair. Lance wondered if Keith knew what that word meant – because he didn't, though he figured it was something unpleasant and potentially lethal.

"You won't have to; I'll do it myself," Keith promised, calmly, solemnly, as though he were making an actual vow of some sort. He settled his mystery eyes on Lance, startling him with their sincerity. Lance shrugged to hide a shudder – though it wasn't a cold feeling that trembled down his neck. Right. Time to end this.

"All right, that's enough," Lance stepped in, hands lifted to push through the abrupt heaviness of the conversation. He drew the line when people started laying down their life for his sake. Particularly since it wasn't clear that Keith hadn't done that already for a girl he didn't even know in a parking lot. Lance half glared at Pidge for even bringing it up. "And you say I'm dramatic. Keith, lie down; this isn't helping."

"You are dramatic," she said, though she was smiling at him again, their friendship a disconnected joint snapped back to its correct place. Something that would ache for a while and would need to be treated tenderly, but worked properly, almost as good as new. "Better do as he says," she instructed Keith as she stood up, leaving the afghan on the desk chair.

"Where are you going?" Lance asked, a little cautiously, before he allowed her to trade places with him in the room. He didn't want her to think she had to leave again.

"To see Hunk," Pidge answered, though the way she said it made Lance wonder why he'd even thought to ask. Of course she was going to see Hunk. She acted on Lance's behalf, gently pushing Keith back down into the bed and pulling the quilt over him, proving to both of them that she was completely on his side now, that she would also defend him as best she could. They didn't say anything else to each other, but Lance knew just how good Pidge was at letting her eyes and face speak for her. For all he knew, she could be reading Keith a silent, encouraging bedtime story in the last few seconds before she left him. Keith looked at her with undisguised relief, though he closed his eyes when she bent down to kiss him along his temple.

She didn't touch Lance on her way out, but that actually made it feel more normal and not less. There was more familiarity in her footsteps than finality. Lance sighed as his world came together again, a little closer though it was slightly larger.

"I guess the truth does matter," Lance emphasized again to Keith, kneeling on the floor next to him on the bed, reaching out to cover his shoulder with his hand and allowing Keith to run his fingers along Lance's sleeve cuff. "Now sleep."

"You too," Keith ordered.

"Soon," Lance promised.

Similar to the last time Keith and Lance had spent the night together in this bedroom, Lance found himself waking in a befuddled heap on his floor, half covered in the afghan, not knowing what was going on. Again like last time, he hadn't meant to fall asleep and couldn't pinpoint exactly when or how it had happened. He remembered Keith drifting off again not too long after Pidge had left, his arms folded oddly near his hips, across his stomach rather than his chest this time. He had heard Hunk's deep rumble through the walls as Pidge joined him in his room. They'd talked in a hum that grew quieter and quieter, like the wind outside. The piano album finished and Lance did not ask it to repeat. His phone remained silent. Keith remained silent, maybe, for a while, though now that Lance was trying hard to think about what had happened in those strange hours of the very early morning, he seemed to remember comforting Keith, that he'd been whimpering, his muscles tight and trembling in the low light of the faithful lamp, murmuring frightened phrases about his frightening future. Then simply moaning – a painful, lonely sound, twisting in distress on the bed. In fact, Lance was rather shocked that he'd been able to fall asleep with Keith moving so much.

Lance pushed himself up so he could orient himself to his surroundings. Figure out the time. See how Keith was doing; he couldn't hear him right now. He hadn't made it very far before he paused, shifting his attention instead to the door, which was being opened in a soft and careful way. Come to think of it, the knob being turned might have been what had woken him up to begin with.

"Great, you're already awake," Pidge greeted him, moving faster now that she'd confirmed she wouldn't be startling him by coming into his room. But why would she be doing that? Why was she happy he was awake?

"Something going on?" Lance whispered, hoping Pidge would lower her voice when she responded. He didn't want to wake Keith up.

"Yeah, I need to go get something, but someone needs to help Keith and Hunk can't do it, so that leaves you." She spoke quickly, tugging at Lance, trying to get him on his feet. "We didn't want to wake you up, but," she finally paused, which was good since Lance was in no way keeping up with her. He looked behind him at the bed, amazed to find it empty. Keith wasn't there? Then where was he? How had he gotten up and out of the room without Lance waking up?

"Where is Keith?" Lance asked, untangling himself from the afghan in a rushed attempt to stand up. And he really did want to stand up, confused and inexplicably alarmed. What kind of help did Keith need and how long had he needed it before they'd decided that it was something that required Lance?

"He's in the bathroom puking his guts out," Pidge responded with a simple sort of efficiency to it, though it rearranged everything in Lance's brain. Now he knew why Hunk couldn't help.

"What?" He hissed, though he did it in motion, taking long strides down the hallway, on his way to assess the situation. "How long?"

"He just started," Pidge answered, half explanation and half excuse for not coming to get him sooner. "I heard him moving in the hall a little while ago so I got up to check on him, and he said he needed to use the bathroom but he didn't want to wake you, so I helped him get in there, but then he started throwing up, and I think there's blood in it, so I figured I'd better come get you anyway." Pidge also spoke as she moved, rapidly filling in the details in the couple of steps of hall. Lance could hear loud music from Hunk's room, his friend's attempt to drown out any noise from the nearby bathroom. Hunk couldn't handle blood or vomit, so Lance was glad that he knew enough to keep out of the way of this one. Pidge seemed to be doing ok, though her face was startlingly white.

"I'll be back," she said in parting, retreating down the hall, but this time she turned toward the front door. Lance didn't have time to even ask her where she was going, but he couldn't blame her for wanting to scram. She obviously wasn't as bad as Hunk, but most people experienced some degree of sympathy nausea in the presence of someone being sick. Even Lance wasn't completely immune, though he could suppress it enough to be helpful. It did mean that despite being in a hurry, he took one last deep breath for himself in preparation for what was waiting for him on the other side of the closed bathroom door.

He came in as Keith was wiping his mouth on a wad of toilet paper, and Lance noticed immediately that there was indeed blood. Keith dropped it in with what must have been last night's dinner and then dropped himself, helpless and limp, on the towels that were still covering the floor, panting with his eyes squeezed shut. Lance felt vindicated in what he'd thought of as a lazy decision to leave them there when he'd finished his shower last night seeing now that they were still serving their purpose. Keith groaned, not even noticing that Lance was with him yet.

"Lobito," Lance alerted him of his presence as he dampened a washcloth for him, kneeling down next to him on the towels, ignoring for the moment what was in the toilet basin, though it was impossible to ignore the scent of it, heavy in the room.

"Just let me die," Keith begged, a plea that staked Lance through the chest as it was so pitifully adamant. He hadn't been sure what Keith would sound like when he'd finally hit the end of his endurance, but now that they seemed to be there, he wasn't all that surprised.

"Sorry, already too invested in not letting that happen," Lance told him, as undramatically as possible while pressing his washcloth on the back of Keith's neck.

"Lance, I can't –" Keith gulped, but then clamped his hand over his mouth and desperately hauled himself over the bowl again. Lance kept his cloth carefully in place and added a supportive hand to Keith's bicep, staying close to him despite how he'd really like to follow Pidge out of the apartment. Something with a ton of bass started thundering in Hunk's room to the point that Lance wondered if their downstairs neighbors were going to start pounding on the ceiling in a minute. As if being woken up early on a Monday morning were the worst thing that could happen to a person.

Keith's dedication to not making a mess on the bathroom floor seemed to be unnecessary; there wasn't much left in his stomach to come up, just some blood-tinged bile. Lance squinted at it, puzzling out its source. He knew Keith didn't have any internal bleeding because that would have come up looking like coffee grounds while this seemed to be a tiny amount, brighter in color, actually more pinkish. Lance realized that it was probably coming from the blisters in Keith's mouth, that they were breaking open and bleeding from the force and acid. Still completely unpleasant and likely excruciatingly painful, but not dangerous.

"I can't go back," Keith panted, hanging his head over the toilet, the most pathetic posture that Lance had yet seen in him, worse than curled up in the hospital bed, worse than unconscious on his living room floor. Worse because he had no solution for this, no medication, no training for how to get Keith's fear under control. No way to reassure him that it would be all right. But he did have to figure out something because this . . . this was going to mess everything up. All the progress they'd made to get Keith rehydrated was going to be for nothing. Lance could almost see his racing heartbeat in his neck and the vein in his forehead, but how to get his heart medication into him if he couldn't keep it down? Lance figured just telling him to calm down wasn't going to work, but what was he doing to do? And how much time did he have left to do it in? He hadn't been able to see what time it was when he got up, but he figured it had to be somewhere between six and seven. Or maybe after seven?

No wonder Keith was sick to his stomach; the court appointment was so close now, and he was so sure that he'd end up back in prison in a matter of hours. Lance pulled slightly on Keith's clothes when he was certain he was finished for a minute, offering Keith whatever solace he could find in his arms, and Keith collapsed into him with absolutely zero resistance, twitching and distressed.

Lance didn't know what to say, so he communicated in touch only. Keith felt different this morning, still hot, but also a weird sort of clammy that happens when you're throwing up. Sweating, not the sort caused by a broken fever but by a different kind of sympathetic stress response that Lance used to know the name for, but it still made Keith's shirt stick to him in twisted, uncomfortable ways. Lance relocated the cloth from Keith's neck to his forehead, pulling him down so his head rested heavy on Lance's lap, reaching around with his other hand to rub his chest in small circles, slowly working his way down to his stomach the way Lance's mother had done for him a long time ago. Keith kept his eyes closed, his breathing feathered, groaning every so often.

"Please," Keith pleaded, though Lance was unable to give him anything he needed or wanted, despite every wish he had that he could. "I can't." Lance opened his mouth to say something, but stopped before getting out a single word. There were no words. There was no time.

The morning dissolved out from under them, new but softer songs beginning and ending on the other side of Hunk's closed door. Lance helped prop Keith up several more times, though he was only dry heaving at this point, his nausea more in his mind and his heart, places that Lance didn't know how to heal. Between episodes, Lance moved his hands over Keith, up and down his arms, over his chest and stomach, down the side of his face, somehow treasuring and abhorring these moments. How they were so special. How they were so awful.

"Lance," Keith whispered, on his side on Lance's thighs, weak. Lance didn't trust himself to answer, so he squeezed Keith's shoulder in response instead. Still here, Keith. As long as I can. It's going to be ok. He wiped Keith's mouth and ran his fingers through his hair and thought desperately hard on how he was going to fix this, keep Keith safe, how he was going to keep him from being taken away.

Lance heard the knock on his front door, but he didn't move right away to answer it, though he knew that Hunk wouldn't hear anything over his music and wouldn't come out until Lance gave him the all clear that it was safe. The knock came again.

"There's someone at the door," Lance notified Keith, knowing he wouldn't care much, couldn't really expend any energy on anything outside this room. Lance cared only marginally more than Keith, and honestly, the only reason he was going to go answer it was because he thought it was most likely Pidge. "I'll be right back. I'll bring some water for you."

"No," Keith answered, though Lance wasn't sure what he was saying no to. He smoothed his hair back one more time before sliding out from underneath him, leaving him broken and crumpled on the floor to go and see the culprit who had forced time to start again in the apartment.

It was Shiro, not Pidge, who stood in the hallway, and Lance almost slammed the door closed on him in frustrated protest. If Shiro was here, it meant that it was eight in the morning already. It meant that Keith had to put on whatever clothes Shiro held on a hanger, dangling from his fingers, draped across his back, and zipped up in a garment bag to protect them from getting dirty before they could be worn. Lance stared at Shiro, at the suit he was already wearing – all completely black, even the dress shirt and the tie he wore underneath the coat. Everything such a deep black that Shiro stood an astrophysical marvel in the hallway; he had his own gravity, dragging Keith out the door.

As Lance stood there, blocking the way in, staring and motionless, Shiro reached forward with his robotic hand, circling it around the back of Lance's neck and pulling them together as though they were comrades rejoined after a long night battling a separate, yet common, enemy.

"It's almost over," Shiro spoke the comforting things that Lance hadn't been able to say, holding him secure, powerful and patient and somehow getting through this so much better than Lance was. "I'm sorry this has been so hard on you; I can't thank you enough."

"Shiro," Lance began, his voice croaky and wet with tears he'd swallowed instead of shed. He didn't know what else to say, though. Don't take Keith away from me. Don't let anyone hurt him anymore. Say we don't have to go, that the whole thing's been called off. There's too much snow. There's too much pain.

Shiro let him go, checking his face for the report of how the night had gone and seeing that it had been more rough than restful, the faintest wonder in one of his eyebrows about how it could have gone so poorly and Lance had not thought to call him.

"How's Keith?" Shiro asked, a pointed, should-be-easy-to-answer question. And as though Keith had decided to answer for himself, Lance could hear the familiar half-cough, half-retching noise starting again from the bathroom. Shiro's head jerked that direction, something in his shoulders collapsing, the garment bag slipping off his back to his side.

"Bad," Lance said, but Shiro was already moving. He tossed the bag in a seemingly careless way, but it must have had some control to it since the bag settled perfectly over the armrest of the couch. Shiro didn't spare it a second glance because he was following the gut-wrenching sound through the apartment. Lance gave him a few seconds head start as he filled a glass with more Gatorade from the fridge. He left the heart medication on the counter, knowing it'd just be a waste to try and get Keith to take it right now.

Shiro stood helplessly watching in the doorway as Keith finished. Keith had one of his hands up, blocking Shiro from coming in, as though he wanted to spare him from seeing this. Lance ignored the hand, slipping tidily past Shiro to join Keith again on the floor, waiting with the glass for Keith to stop gasping, to stop spitting ineffectually, for the moments of calm on the other side of this, however few they may be.

"Lance, can you tell me what I'm looking at," Shiro requested, voice gentle, mild as always, almost, but not entirely stripped of dread.

"Stress," Lance answered promptly, understanding what Shiro wanted to know. There was nothing physically wrong with Keith outside of the problems they already knew about. Though if this kept up, it would cause some, starting with dehydration and possibly putting Keith right back in the position he'd been in on Saturday afternoon. "You're looking at anxious nausea."

"Please shut up," Keith requested, moving to return his head to the towels, but Lance prevented him, catching him one-handed to keep him semi-upright, handing him the glass.

"Sip it," Lance ordered.

"No point," Keith shot back, miserable.

"I don't care if you swallow it. Use it as a mouthwash if you want, just take a damn sip," Lance returned, angry all of a sudden, but not at Keith, who looked rather wide-eyed at Lance's abrupt break in attitude, though he took the glass, suddenly meek. Lance sighed, knowing he'd have to do something else with his anger, so he turned on Shiro instead.

"Does he have to do this?" Lance said rather snappishly to Shiro, who he also wasn't angry with, but he figured he could handle Lance's fury better. "Isn't there something we can do? I mean, look at him!" He was so sick, so weak, so emotionally battered. To force him up, into a suit, and out into the weather to the courthouse seemed a definite violation of the Eight Amendment. Cruel and unnatural punishment. For something he hadn't even done.

"He just has to sit there," Shiro returned, infuriatingly calm. "And then it will be over."

But what if it wasn't? Or what if over meant that Keith would be taken into custody? What would they do to him? Would they be gentle with him? Take care of him? Or would they push him into a corner and forget they'd ever seen him? Leave him to suffer alone. Lance tried to remember Krolia's voice on the phone yesterday, tried to imagine her standing in the courtroom fighting for Keith, wishing he could have heard what she'd said. Wishing he had a better guess as to what the jury had decided about Keith.

Lance continued to glare at Shiro, though it wasn't his fault. In his peripheral vision, he saw Keith take extremely slow and tiny amounts of Gatorade into his mouth, though he was right, he didn't keep them down. Lance took the glass for him so he would have his hands free, one to support himself on the rim as he leaned over, and the other pressed tight against his churning stomach. It was such a hopeless place.

That's where Pidge joined them again, returned from where ever she'd had to go and letting herself into the apartment. She took in the scene instantaneously, giving Lance an exasperated sort of look that he couldn't figure out.

"Lance, what are you doing?" She sort of barked at him, her hands emphasizing her question. "Where's your rubbing alcohol? I thought you would have taken care of this already."

"My what?" Lance asked her, confused, another avalanche of weird and terrible closing in on him. Taken care of what? And how exactly? He kept one hand on Keith's back, on his knees on the floor, switching his gaze from Shiro to Pidge as she started dismantling the tiny hall closet where they kept their extra bedding and some cleaning supplies.

"Don't tell me you don't know this trick," Pidge continued, successfully pulling a small bottle of clear liquid away from the dusting stuff, the hydrogen peroxide, and an extra container of dish soap. "Excuse me," she said politely to Shiro, stepping past him into the crowded bathroom.

Lance tried to think of something snippy to say to her, but he was at a loss. His head was too full of other things, bigger things. He exchanged a final look with Shiro, who was watching Pidge with baffled interest, not knowing much about her. Or really anything about her. Their only exchange had been her offering him a cookie yesterday.

"Here, Keith," Pidge instructed gently, leaning down with the open alcohol bottle since there wasn't any more room for her to get properly on the floor. "Deep breaths; it should help. I brought you something that'll help even more, but it's something you have to swallow so we need to get this under control first. I thought Lance knew about this, but I guess not, so I'm sorry it took me so long to get back."

At first, Keith tilted his head back, as though he thought that she meant for him to drink it or something. But as Pidge held it close to his nose, swirling the contents so the scent would waft up, he stopped trying to lean away. He lifted a hand to hold onto Pidge's wrist, looking ready to just douse himself. Apparently, it was doing something helpful.

"How does that work?" Lance asked in spite of himself, in spite of being angry and worried and helpless.

"I don't know; that's neuroscience," Pidge dismissed, still leaning over Keith, who was now breathing heavily in and out of her offered bottle. "I just know the scent somehow shuts off that need-to-puke reflex. It doesn't work if you have food poisoning or something, but for anxiety stuff, it's a miracle. Huh, Keith?"

Keith only moaned in relief, and Lance felt guilty. If he'd known that, as Pidge seemed to think that he should, he could have spared Keith a lot of painful heaving. He was also curious. How did Pidge know about it? But when he looked at her to ask, she just shook her head.

"How's it going out there, guys?" Came Hunk's sudden question from behind his door. Lance hadn't noticed that the music had stopped. He'd almost forgotten that Hunk was still trapped in his self-quarantine in his room.

"Better give us a few more minutes, Hunk," Lance called to him, considering Pidge and Keith. It wasn't clear yet if Pidge's alcohol thing was working or if it was just because Keith was between bouts. "Can you try another drink?" Lance asked Keith.

"That's a good idea," Pidge agreed, encouragingly. Lance noticed Shiro checking his watch and realized that no matter what, Keith was leaving soon.

"Pidge, you got this?" Lance checked as he stood up, eyes still on Shiro.

"If you aren't going far," she allowed, taking his place on the floor, helping Keith alternate between sips of Gatorade and deep inhales of alcohol. Lance nodded, pulling Shiro down the hallway a little bit, out of earshot so they could talk without Keith hearing them.

"I'm sorry, Lance," Shiro apologized again. "We just don't have a choice."

"I know," Lance acknowledged, contrite. "Sorry I snapped at you. I just wish he didn't have to do this."

"Hopefully, it won't take long, and he can get back to just recovering very soon. From all of it."

"I'll give you some of the bags that they use in the hospital, in case he gets sick again," Lance began planning for the rapidly-approaching separation, giving Shiro as many details as possible for taking care of Keith when Lance couldn't be with him anymore, hating that this was really happening. "And some alcohol pads since that seems to be working pretty well. Please make sure they let him have water; he really needs to be drinking. His meds are in the kitchen; he hasn't had any yet this morning, obviously, but he will need to-"

"You know I was planning on you coming with us, right?" Shiro interrupted. Lance swallowed his next instruction.

"Really?" He double-checked; this was news to him. "But I thought they wouldn't let me?"

"I really think Keith needs an EMT escort. You have a uniform, right?"

"I . .. sure, of course, I do," Lance stammered, rearranging his day.

"Go put it on," Shiro said, pushing him a little toward his room.

**Author's Note: Yeah, guys, I'm sorry. I wanted these scenes and this was the time to put them in, and I know that means that we have yet Another Chapter before court and Krolia and all that good stuff. Does it make it better if I tell you it'll be worth it? Possibly?**

**Does it help knowing that next chapter will have Keith and Shiro in a suit and Lance in his EMT uniform?**


	22. Closed Court

**Author's Note: What's this? I'm posting early? (as in very early, I should be sleeping; it's weird). I know, but there is a scene here that I've had just burning into my head for weeks now and I was dying to get it written and out there. Hope you like the early chapter (to make up for all the late ones?)**

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Closed Court**

After a little more pushing and persuasion, Shiro returned to the bathroom to help with Keith, and Lance hurried to his room to change, grateful that he'd already cleared his schedule for the day, though he went back and forth on whether it was a good idea for him to go. On one hand, he was relieved to not be separated from Keith yet, but another part of him worried about what he might be forced to helplessly watch after the verdict was read. He pushed past those dark thoughts and the hanging sets of scrubs in his closet to access the uniform pieces he kept pressed and ready for his monthly ambulance runs and certain certification trainings.

EMTs in this area of Chicago wore sky blue button-downs tucked into navy pants so dark that they looked black from a short distance. Lance chose his long-sleeved version of the shirt, his first initial and last name stitched above the left breast pocket in navy thread, and his hard-earned blue first responder patch likewise secured to his sleeve over his left bicep. The patch indicating his volunteer connection with the Chicago Police Department was sewn on his right. It didn't give him any sort of authority, but it meant that the department's insurance would cover him in the event of being sued by a patient riding his ambulance.

Once he was dressed down to the heavy black boots, he quickly put together a kit, not in his monstrous medical bag, but in his backpack, which he first emptied for the occasion. He wanted his stats notebook, two pens, his phone and charger, the blood pressure cuff, thermometer, and pulse oximeter, some emesis bags in case Pidge's weird aromatherapy mind trick didn't work for long plus all of his individually wrapped packages of alcohol pads to make sure it could work as long as possible. He finished by draping his stethoscope around his neck, secured under his collar like the medical version of a necktie.

Satisfied that he'd taken all he'd need from his room, Lance went to continue packing in the kitchen, where he unexpectedly ran into Hunk, who was staring blearily at their current bag of coffee, obviously still a little weirded out and pale from all the commotion this morning.

"Doing ok, Hunk?" Lance asked him kindly, receiving a slack-jawed, disoriented stare in response.

"I need coffee," Hunk droned, rubbing his hands over his face, looking Lance up and down between his fingers. "What's with the uniform?"

"Apparently, I am going with Keith and need to look official," Lance answered, securing Keith's medication and two unopened water bottles into the backpack. He wondered how long they'd be gone. Maybe he should pack more?

"Dude, no, to _court_?" Hunk clarified, sounding maybe a little too worried. Or surprised? Skeptical? Whatever the emotion, there was too much of it. "What about your classes? What about work?"

"Hey, chill," Lance tried to calm his friend. "I took care of all that already; they all know I'm not coming. You shouldn't be more worried about it than I am; what's going on?"

"I don't know, man; this is not really your area. And what if Keith ends up .. you know, not coming back . . . you can't unsee stuff like that." Hunk answered while messing around with the coffeemaker, though he was not doing a very good job of it. Normally Lance made the coffee since he was almost always up first. Hunk didn't seem to even know how to do it. Either that or he'd finally hit his last nerve on this whole Keith situation and it was rendering him incapable of function. You could only push roommates so far. Lance decided to intervene before Hunk dumped the grounds into the top before he put in a filter. "Knowing you," Hunk continued, though he was staring into the bag as though someone else were holding it. "You'd probably blame yourself. It would haunt you forever."

"Hunk, bro, go sit down," Lance instructed since he was still acting like a person in shock, or maybe he was just sleepy, but either way Lance elbowed him away from the counter and physically removed the scoop from his hand before he ruined their coffeemaker. And this wasn't really a morning that either of them could go without coffee. "I'll be fine; it's Keith I'm worried about. I can't let him go alone."

"Um, technically Shiro's going with him, so he won't be alone," Hunk pointed out, not leaving the kitchen to sit as Lance had told him to do, but his speech was speeding up slowly, not sounding quite so spacey and strange. "I think it's more you can't stand waiting here at home with the rest of us to find out what's going to happen."

Lance tightened up slightly at Hunk's uncomfortably accurate observation. No, he couldn't stand staying at the apartment while Shiro took Keith away, where Lance may never see him again. And honestly, he didn't think Hunk and Pidge could stand him if he were to stay behind anyway. He knew he'd be a pacing, fidgety wreck until Shiro could give them an outcome. It was for everyone's sake that he was tagging along, really.

"I'm going anyway," Lance decided, silently congratulating himself on sounding calm and resolved, steadily pouring water into the machine and starting it up.

"And I knew you were going to say that," Hunk sighed, leaning tiredly against the sink, closing his eyes.

"Hunk, seriously, you ok?" Lance pressed, getting actually worried about him.

"It's just been a little roller coaster-ish this weekend," Hunk admitted, though he pulled himself together enough to stand straight, opening his eyes to consider Lance again. "You ever feel like you're living the moments where everything you were used to is going to just be, like, gone forever? Do you think you can notice things like that when they're happening, or do you think that's something you can only tell after the fact?"

"Is this astro or metaphysics?" Lance asked, slightly teasing though he knew exactly what Hunk meant, but he was surprised that Hunk had noticed it and that he could express it so easily. That tangled, slippery weirdness that was making the apartment feel like a place Lance had never been before – all the familiarity just suddenly vanished, a door closing, a shrinking, a change in the wind. Nothing had actually changed, but it felt like it was going to. He'd thought it was just his own life that was at worst falling apart and at best rearranging. Or maybe it _was_ just Lance's life and Hunk's empathy was locked in high gear so he was feeling it too.

Whatever the case, Hunk gave him a flat, unimpressed stare, and Lance was reminded that Hunk hardly ever got up this early. He was never awakened by vomiting strangers in his bathroom. He'd never had to watch Lance and Pidge argue to the point where she'd left in a huff. He'd never brought police officers into the apartment, stayed up all night packing snow into Ziploc bags while unknowingly listening to an unconscious person repeatedly apologize for murder. Hunk was such a rock of support for Lance, over and over, that he'd grown too accustomed to him adapting endlessly to the variety of chaos that seemed to follow Keith.

"I think every moment changes something," Lance told him, not teasing him anymore. "One decision leads to several more but blocks off others. Most of them are so small and insignificant that you don't notice, but I guess every so often, choices make big enough changes that you can feel it, that you know you're making an altering decision. Or that the next decision you make will mean you can't go back to where you were before."

"Definitely meta," Hunk said, and Lance wasn't sure if he were teasing him or not. He also wasn't sure what life-altering choices Hunk might be talking about. What there was in either of their lives that made him think it would never be the same again. He wondered if he should ask. Lance started slicing one of Hunk's remaining loaves of bread from Saturday night, dropping two pieces into their toaster. Shiro came into the living room briefly to retrieve the garment bag from off the couch.

"Need any help?" Lance asked him, ready to assist though he wasn't sure if Hunk were ok to be left alone yet either.

"Not yet," Shiro said. "It's pretty slow going in there."

"Pidge's thing still working?"

"So far so good," Shiro answered, sounding relieved. "I'll call for you if we need you; finish what you're doing."

"Do you think," Hunk began as Shiro disappeared down the hall again. "Think that it'll be like this all the time with Keith, or will things calm way down after today?"

"It'll settle," Lance immediately stated. Keith's whole life seemed to be tainted with intensity, but it was quickly moving away from them. A storm crossing to the other side of the lake. "One way or another," he murmured almost to himself. Though things would slow down, going back to the old, but different, normal - none of the future scenarios were appealing to Lance. They all seemed rather empty.

"That's good," Hunk sighed, not understanding. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I wanted you to find someone, but I always figured it'd be some cute and quiet nursing student who would be cool with you making all the plans. Someone a little more predictable and . . . less intense, you know?"

"I don't know," Lance played dumb, his voice cooling as he transferred the finished toast to plates and began frosting them with butter and Hunk's homemade strawberry freezer jam. He added two more slices of bread to the toaster and checked the level on the coffee, then the time, which was maddeningly moving closer to ten. He wasn't even sure how far of a drive the courthouse was, but he figured they would have to leave very soon now.

"Except you do," Hunk said, not allowing Lance to be vague. "And hey, it's not my place to judge or anything, but it would be nice if things could just settle around here for half a minute."

"I thought you said we should get ourselves an A, complete our S.T.A.R. set?" Lance poked, a defensive technique because he didn't want to get into it yet. Didn't want to tell Hunk he was right or wrong, didn't think he'd get very far convincing him. Probably because he didn't know which way to convince him. And it didn't matter.

"That was before I knew how _exhausting_ it was going to be to have one," Hunk returned.

"It'll be over soon, Hunk, he's not staying," Lance said, handing him a plate full of toast. "I'm not even sure he's coming back here after today. He'll either be going with Shiro or –" Lance stopped himself before saying it out loud.

"That's the other part I'm worried about," Hunk said, as though glad that it was Lance who had brought it up, though Lance wasn't sure what he'd done. "Since Keith doesn't seem to be the type to stay in one spot or with one person for very long . . . are you going to be all right with that?"

"Dude, I've only known him for one weekend," Lance answered glibly, hoping his voice would hide how not okay he would be with that.

"Yeah, I know, but you just said yourself that there are some choices you don't come back from."

Lance heard himself growl, though Hunk didn't deserve it. He poured his friend a cup of coffee, adding sugar and cream the way that he liked. "Some choices aren't ours to make," he told him, raising his own mug and heading toward the bathroom. Hunk was too on point, reading Lance's emotions better than Lance could himself, as usual, and Lance wasn't ready to have a therapy session about this. "I'd stay here if I were you," Lance recommended as he walked away, more than ready to escape, even though he might be walking into something even worse than what he was leaving. "And sit down."

The bathroom remained crowded when Lance returned to it. Keith was perched wearily on the edge of the bathtub now with his shirt off but no other progress had been made into getting him into the suit. Pidge had kept Lance's wet washcloth on the back of his neck, but he was holding the alcohol bottle himself now. Shiro kept anxiously checking his watch while Pidge seemed to be coaxing Keith into taking something she had in her hand.

"Wait a second," Lance paused them as he entered the scene. "What is that, Pidge?"

"Something you wouldn't have even known about if you'd finished your coffee in the kitchen and waited two more minutes," she said, a little tersely. He pushed into her with a glare, demanding that she answer. Medications, though plentiful, didn't get dispensed lightly around here. "But it's Xanax if you must know."

"Xanax?" Lance was surprised. Is that what she'd gone out to get this morning? But where? "What's the dosage?"

"Point five milligrams," Pidge answered. "It'll get him through the day, I figure. Or at least the next four hours."

"But where did you get it?" Lance asked, a little worried about the answer. Pidge rolled her eyes.

"This is why I was rushing you," she said to Keith before returning to Lance's question. "It's not mine, it's not expired, and I didn't steal it, but that's all you need to know." Lance wasn't sure he could accept that as an answer, though he also didn't think he could approve of any method of acquisition. What did it mean that Pidge recognized what was going on with Keith and then immediately knew exactly how to get her hands on a dose (or several) of Xanax within thirty minutes before nine am on a Monday morning? Was she lying to him? Maybe it really was hers. But what would she need it for? And how often?

"Is it safe?" Shiro asked, watching the exchange, and Lance thought about that. Went through what he could remember about the effects, and side effects, of that particular drug and also what it might do when taken with Keith's other, legally prescribed, medication. Then he thought of all that Keith might have to do today starting with just getting him into the car and realized that if the pill that Pidge held in her hand could ease any of that for him, Lance would be more grateful for it than anything else.

"Yes," Lance relented, though his jaw wouldn't unclench very well for him to say it. "But we're not done talking about this," he warned Pidge, wanting to know what sort of campus black market existed for this type of thing and how she'd found out about it. "Go ahead and take it, Keith, if you think you can keep it down."

For the first time since Lance had come back, Keith lifted his head to look at him, reacting to Lance speaking to him specifically. He peeled his eyes off the floor in slow motion, as though he were already drugged, but he did a much faster double take when he saw Lance in the doorway, then checked him up and down much like he'd done the very first time Lance had met him in his room – though without the hostility. It made Lance want to fiddle with his buttons to make sure they were done up correctly.

"Holy shit," Keith muttered, averting his gaze, inhaling deeply from the alcohol bottle. Lance didn't know what to make of that, but it made Pidge smile and shake her head a little.

"Cleans up nice, doesn't he?" She said as she handed over the small white pill and reached backward toward the sink for Keith's Gatorade cup – though it was now half full of water. Keith had to gag the pill down, keeping his hand over his mouth and his eyes tightly closed in concentration.

"Your turn to get dressed now, Keith," Shiro instructed gently, coming closer to assist. "Sorry, but we only have a few more minutes. We'll have to drive slow as it is; the roads aren't great today."

"Could you check on Hunk for me?" Lance asked Pidge, partly because he knew that the less people here watching Keith get dressed the better. "Make sure he's eating and not still staring at nothing in the kitchen?"

"When did I become a physician's assistant?" Pidge quipped, though she gently patted Keith on the shoulder as she made her way out of the room, not minding the task Lance had given her in the least and they both knew it. Lance switched out the alcohol bottle clenched tight in Keith's hand for a sterile wipe to make it easier to do things like put arms in sleeves and to test the effectiveness of the smaller wipe against the more concentrated solution in the container. Shiro and Lance teamed up practically silently to get Keith dressed, with Keith doing his best to not be dead weight between them. Lance noticed that he could almost stand on his own power today, thank you iron infusion, though did not have the balance to put on pants yet. Throughout the process of dressing, Keith's body loosened, his fingers relaxing, the tightness leaving his shoulders as the quick-acting Xanax shut down the panic in his brain. He raised his eyes to Lance, watching him brazenly as Shiro knelt in front of him to knot the tie, something that Lance had wanted to witness, but found himself instead staring back at Keith.

He was used to it now, how Keith stared at things, hard and unflinching. When Pidge stared at Lance like this, they could communicate. He could clearly see what she was thinking, and she seemed to have equal ease in reading him. But Keith was closed. Lance could see pain and desperation, though it dulled almost as he watched due to the drug. He could see that Keith hadn't really been joking when he'd asked Lance to let him die, that he wished so hard that he didn't have to go do this terribly hard thing that was his only reward for trying to do something good. And then there was something mysterious, like the color, emotions that were plainly visible but untranslatable for Lance.

"Aren't you late for class?" Keith finally asked him as Shiro finished the tie but left it hanging loose around Keith's neck, presumably waiting until the last minute to discomfort Keith in any way by tightening it.

"I'm not going to classes today," Lance half-confessed, surprising himself by how embarrassed he was about admitting it. All the work that had brought him to this campus to allow him the privilege of attending classes, even semi-stupid ones like their English 101 that was actually almost finished now, and he was wasting it. "Or work. I'm taking the whole day off."

"Lance is coming with us," Shiro answered for him. Keith's eyes widened, his chin coming up in pride even as his expression softened into relief, and any guilt that Lance had felt before about skipping his classes and calling in sick to work disappeared. This was undoubtedly the best use of his time.

"EMT escort service," Lance said, not being able to help himself from bowing just a little bit, trying to break through the weird tension in the room, the way Keith continued to stare. "I'll waive the fee considering this is your first time."

Keith didn't say thanks in words, but his whole body communicated gratitude. Shiro took hold of his arm and helped him stand up, allowing Lance to study the effect of Keith in a suit, though it fit him rather poorly. It was too loose, for starters, as though someone had purchased it for him with the idea that he would grow into it, or perhaps it wasn't even his. Maybe Shiro had borrowed it for him to wear today. It made him look rather small and extremely vulnerable. He was gaining a little color into his face, the fever flush was back now that the Xanax was taming the nausea, but Keith still had deep shadows under his eyes, which were also off, too bright. If it weren't for the flush, Lance thought they could have easily laid him out on a table with his arms crossed over his chest and he would have presented a very credible picture of a corpse. Unbidden, Lance heard the words "dead man walking" shiver through his memory. It'd come from a movie; he couldn't even remember which one, but that particular line sliced him open so sharply that he heard himself take a little gasp.

"Come here," Lance begged more than directed, suddenly wanting to take Keith from Shiro, wanting his weight on his arm, his heat against his side. Still here. Still with him. Shiro gave Lance a look of surprised compassion, but he did transfer Keith to his arms.

"I'll go get the car," Shiro offered once he was satisfied that Keith only needed one of them to help him walk this morning.

"Next time we get dressed up," Lance said lightly, trying to hide how deep and hard his emotions were cutting into him. "Let's make sure we're going to a better party." Keith leaned heavily, used to walking next to him this way now, his hand across Lance's back, holding to his shoulder right above the patch. Lance's arm draped across the back of Keith's waist, though with the suit he found it impossible to tuck his thumb through Keith's belt loop. He settled for grabbing onto the fabric of his pocket.

"Deal," Keith panted as they made their way through the narrow hallway and into the living room. Pidge helpfully brought Lance his backpack, which he slipped over the shoulder that Keith wasn't holding on to. Hunk looked up from the table, his face crashing into tears immediately on seeing Keith.

"Thank you," Keith paused to say to them. Lance held on to him tighter, sensing a sudden weakness in him, as though he'd buckle any second from either strain or sentiment. "It's been an honor to meet you." Lance felt tears sting his eyes even as he smiled. Keith sounded so much like Shiro in that sentence.

The carefully-contained tears in his voice and the select choice of words completely broke Hunk, who burst out with one initial sob and then quieted into a steady but impressive flood. Pidge studied the tabletop with extreme dedication, her face slightly turned away, fighting her own emotional battle, but after only a few seconds, she bolted to her feet and rushed at Keith, hugging him around the waist. Lance kept them all balanced as Keith bowed slightly over her, his tears disappearing into her hair. Never one to be left out of a hug, Hunk was right behind her, throwing his arms around them all, as far as he could reach. And though time did not actually stop in that moment, Lance could almost pretend that it had.

"D-dinner's at six," Hunk sniffed when they all carefully extracted from each other, eyes wet and downcast. "Don't be late."

"We'll be back," Lance heard himself promise, watching Keith cover his mouth with his hand again, though this time it was for a different reason.

"Take care of our star," Pidge instructed Lance, who felt as though the floor were tipping underneath him. The walls of the apartment moved outward, the light changed. As Hunk and Pidge moved away, the distance felt much greater than it actually was. Lance looked desperately to Hunk and received a sad nod of acknowledgement. He could feel it too.

"I will," Lance agreed solemnly, and began walking slowly away from them. Out the door, down the hall, into the elevator. Keith's strength waned as they walked. His steps becoming slower, almost tripping because he couldn't seem to put forth the effort required to lift his foot enough from the floor. Lance held him up, guided him forward, the Dead Man Walking line marching in time in his mind to their pace across the floor despite his internal begging for it to shut up.

Shiro met them at the door, giving Lance back his keycard and taking up guard on Keith's opposite side. Which was good as the cold always beat into Keith hardest, and he reacted to it as though he'd been punched in the stomach. Lance eased him into the backseat and hurried in next to him so he could lock them into the warmth of the car.

Without invitation, Keith immediately put his head down on Lance's thigh, breathing hard after all the movement, the alcohol-drenched wipe held tight against his face. And he was still crying. Lance could feel the tears soaking into his pants, feel the trembling of it shaking through Keith, so he gave in to the desire to rest his hand on Keith's head, slowly stroking his hair. Shiro looked over his shoulder to check on them, his eyes worried and hopeful at the same time, before he pulled the car away from Stony Island and into a world that was covered in snow, hard edges, and incorrect assumptions.

Lance hadn't been paying much attention outside of the apartment, there hadn't been much reason, but now that Shiro was taking them off campus, Lance found himself staring at the iconic city that he didn't actually see much of. They quickly were past Hyde Park and the shopping center where Lance sometimes went with Hunk. Shiro was driving them north along Lake Shore Drive, and Lance watched intently the sunlight on the water. It didn't compare to the beaches he'd grown up on. It made Lance cold just to look at it. The shoreline was frozen over, giving way to broken gashes of icy waves, and then further out was the black-ish choppiness that refused to reflect the sun's brightness properly.

And it was bright. Not snowing for the moment, but the blue of the sky seemed to promise that the storm, at least this one, was over. Not that it hadn't left the city anything to remember it by. The plows were still out, doing their best to clear the side streets. Along the lake's path there were hardly any joggers or dogwalkers, and those who had decided to brave the outdoors did so in layers and layers of scarves, ponchos, and thick hats. And while Shiro never faltered in his perfect control of his vehicle, Lance could see that the roads were covered in patches of ice. 

All the while they drove, Lance stared at the water that wasn't at all like the ocean, and tried to think of something comforting to say to Keith. He came up short each time; nothing seemed appropriate. He continued to rub his shaking shoulder as Keith wore himself out with tears, both the ones he shed and the ones he gulped back. Every few seconds, Lance was aware of Shiro's soft black eyes glancing at them in the mirror.

"So Lance?" Shiro began, apparently deciding that since neither of them could think of anything to say to Keith, the next best thing would be to talk to each other. "You and your friends are quite the talented group. How did you all come to know each other?"

"I got lucky," Lance answered without hesitation. "Hunk and I were just assigned to the same apartment without ever meeting. I think they put us together because they thought we have similar backgrounds? Like they were sitting there with all the names and figured the island boys should stick together or something."

"Oh, so it wasn't your decision. Good thing you ended up getting along so well."

"Hunk gets along with everyone," Lance pointed out. "Well, no, I guess that's not quite true. I've seen him act pretty cold towards a few people. He has a sense about this kind of thing. He's friendly to just about everyone, but if he ever doesn't like someone, you don't ask why, you just keep away from them. But yeah, he and I synched up quick, but it felt like we'd been friends for a long time before we met, which doesn't make sense, but that's how it felt to me. It's hard not to like someone when you walk into an apartment, fresh from customs at the airport and scared to death, and the first thing you see is a huge smile and a cup of chocolate. I'm just glad he puts up with me."

Keith squeezed his knee at that comment.

"And your other roommate? Is her name Pidge?"

"No," Lance smiled, watching as the lake disappeared when Shiro pulled onto the Stephenson Expressway and started heading west. "And Hunk's name isn't Hunk either, but to be honest with you, I think I've forgotten Hunk's actual name. It's long and has, like, two apostrophes in it. But Pidge's name is Katie, and she's a friend, not a roommate. Hunk started bringing her home sometimes to work on physics stuff and robotics. Then the sometimes turned into all the time and now she has her own key and it's weird when she's not there."

"Are they together?" Shiro asked, not to be nosy, but in an attempt to continue to fill the oppressive silence of the drive. Lance tried to laugh.

"If you ask them, no, but if you asked literally any other person who has seen them together for longer than five minutes, it's a definite yes," Lance said, watching the businesses along the streets pass, reading the signs, missing the lake. It might have been disappointing, but at least it was familiar.

"What about you?" Shiro continued. "Are you with anyone?"

Lance's soul snapped shut like blinds being pulled over a window. Keith tightened against his leg, and his mouth felt dry all of a sudden. He knew that Shiro was still just trying to make conversation, to keep Keith's thoughts off where they were going, to keep it light and easy in the car, but this innocent question seemed too personal, somehow invasive.

"No," Lance answered, staring intently out the window, the light extinguished from his voice, Keith's fevered body heavy and twitching on his lap. "I don't have the time for that kind of thing." He offered as an excuse as to why he was alone, effectively killing the mood and allowing the cold to rush back into the car. Shiro gave him a quick, repentant look through the mirror, and Lance could tell he was sorry he'd asked, that he hadn't meant for it to be a touchy subject.

"You had a date on Friday," Keith offered helpfully, his voice quiet and breathy from Lance's knees. He shifted against the seat, twisting around.

"Yeah, that's true," Lance admitted, watching Keith with increasing concern, hoping to quickly open up discussion again so he could safely change the subject.

"That you canceled because of me," Keith went on, a little bitterly, like he was ashamed of costing Lance his social life even though Lance had already tried to absolve him from any guilt about that. Lance ran a gentle hand through Keith's hair, wanting to still him.

"Don't be sorry about that because I'm not," Lance told him. "It would have been our first date, and I probably would have made a fool of myself. She's way out of my league, so maybe it's better to not know how it would have gone."

"You sound like you're never going to see her again," Shiro pointed out, his tone careful now. "Couldn't you reschedule?"

"I'm not sure," Lance answered, wishing they could talk about something else. "It was kind of a miracle that I got the first one, and she . . . well, to say she was disappointed would be an understatement. She's not the sort of girl you cancel a date with and then get another chance. Keith, what's going on with you? Need us to stop for a minute?"

Because Keith had not stopped fidgeting ever since their discussion had centered around Lance's romantic endeavors. He'd pulled his legs up on to the seat, tucking into a smaller ball, then tried to stretch in the tight space, and now he was trying to sit up, but not straight, in obvious distress.

"Are you feeling sick?" Lance asked, reaching for his backpack so he could retrieve one of the blue emesis bags in case Shiro couldn't get stopped in time. There wasn't a good place to pull off of the expressway, and even if they'd been on a side street, the piles of snow everywhere blocked most of the street parking.

"Keith?" Shiro questioned from the front, unable to give them his full attention as he frantically searched for somewhere he could stop.

"It's not that," Keith answered, and Lance could see now that he was sitting up that he was more flushed than pale. He lifted the saddest puppy eyes to Lance, turning to him again in search of relief. "It's my back," he admitted. "It feels like it's going to snap in half."

"Oh!" Lance exclaimed, relieved despite the circumstances. "Geeze, that's bad timing. You can't ever catch a break, can you, Lobito?"

"It means something?" Shiro asked, his driving calming again.

"It's the last stage of this version of the flu," Lance answered them both, though he was looking directly at Keith, his face and voice both calm. "It hurts like hell, but it means that Keith's fever will break soon." He reached for Keith, helping him turn on the seat, helping him curl tight against Lance's hip and chest, as though cradling an infant. The only position of comfort he'd found was consistent with each patient. At least for a while, but with this kind of unrelenting pain, even ten minutes was a blessing. With one arm he reached around Keith, holding him close and with his other, he slipped under Keith's suit coat and untucked his shirt, palming the place on Keith's lower back where he knew it would be the most painful, knowing from past experience that there wasn't much that would sooth this, but the heat from a hand would do at least something. Keith whimpered, resting his head trustingly against Lance's chest, even though the buttons and patches that were part of the uniform probably weren't as comfortable as the long sleeved Tshirts and sweaters Lance had been wearing all weekend.

"How soon?" Keith grunted with his teeth clenched.

"I shouldn't have said soon," Lance backtracked. "We're talking several hours. In your case, it could be more than twelve." Another whimper. Lance pulled him as close as possible in the strange position in the backseat. He just has to sit there, Shiro had said. Except just sitting had now become excruciating for Keith. "It doesn't feel like it, I know, but it means you're getting better." Keith twisted a little to give him an uncertain look, and Lance didn't blame him.

Shiro pulled off the expressway and started driving north this time. Everyone quieted, sensing their destination was close. Lance held Keith, and though he was unable to assure him in English, somehow it didn't seem so futile doing the same thing in Spanish, more lullaby than empty words that way. "_Va a estar bien_," he murmured, keeping his hand tight and warm against Keith's back. "_Está casi terminado._" Shiro continued to check on them in the mirror, his glances more and more frequent as he noticed that Lance was no longer speaking English. Like he wanted to ask about it but didn't know how. Lance didn't offer an explanation. If Keith and Shiro could have secret phrases and inside meanings, then Lance could have that too.

All too soon, Shiro was pulling off California Ave and onto a sort of drive, and Lance was looking up at a concrete block of a building with eight intimidating columns stretched evenly across its face. The courthouse even looked like it was covered in prison bars, all the windows slit with stone. Lance involuntarily swallowed.

"Ok, you two," Shiro instructed. "I'm dropping you off here because the parking lot is up past 26th street. Leave your phones in the car; you won't be able to bring them in. Lance? There's a little reception area in the front entrance, just past the metal detectors. Wait for me there."

Lance tried to keep his mind from running into a wildfire of details. He'd just been handed the position of Incident Commander in Charge again, except he was out of place here. He'd never seen this building, had no idea what was inside. Hadn't known, though he should have expected, that he would be single-handedly responsible for assisting Keith through the front door.

"Right," Lance whispered, wishing his voice sounded stronger for Keith's sake. "Here, Keith, before we go in." Keith twisted agonizingly from his lap as Lance reached for his bag again, pulling out his phone as instructed as well as an emesis bag, more alcohol wipes, and his most comfortable, reusable black face mask. He took it upon himself to stuff the bag and wipes into the inside pocket of the suit jacket, and then tucked the loops of the mask over Keith's ears, slipping his fingers around the edges to adjust the fit. He didn't want Keith to have to wear it, but he was likely still contagious and they were entering a public place. Just because he and Shiro were willing to take the risk on not catching anything from him didn't mean that Lance could knowingly inflict that risk on anyone else in that building.

He took a couple more seconds to simply hold Keith's face in his hands after the mask was in place, looking at the effect. Covering Keith's mouth and nose made his eyes seem even larger, and the color of the mask darkened them. Lance's nerves struck him hard in that moment and he found himself defensively breaking into a weird giggling fit. Keith's eyes narrowed.

"Lance?" Shiro questioned warningly. Like he might be regretting his decision to bring Lance along, and who could blame him for that? Even Lance hadn't known he was finally going to have a nervous breakdown in the car seconds from the front door of the courthouse. Though looking back, he probably should have known it would be Keith's eyes that would break him.

"Got it," Lance managed, calming down, exiting backward from the car so he could give Keith a supportive hand. "Come on, Tuxedo Mask." He could tell that Keith didn't get the joke, that it was not that great of one, and the timing was the worst, but he had to say it. Had to push for something normal in the situation, seek out anything he could control as he escorted Keith into this cold, concrete building. One that Keith might not be coming out of.

Bag on one shoulder and Keith clinging to the other one, Lance steeled himself to be strong, to support and defend Keith as much as he was able. Keith walked hunched at his side with an almost limp from the pain in his back, from the debilitating weakness of the past few days, with the dread of what was waiting for him that the Xanax could dull but not fully remove. Together, they staggered up the three steps and across the icy entryway to the glass front doors, covered in official postings and notices with the words George N. Leighton Criminal Court Building arched over the two central entrances.

As Shiro had warned, each entrance had its own metal detector and a security officer in full uniform to man them. Lance prepared himself for a rough procedure, but the entrance guards were amazingly accommodating. They expectantly stopped them to ask for names and what business brought them to court today, but they quickly noticed that Keith needed extra help. Within minutes, someone had brought a wheelchair, and they gently patted Keith down instead of wheeling him through their machine. They inspected the contents of his pockets, but replaced everything when none of it was of particular concern, speaking to him with calm reassurance through the whole thing.

Lance had a slightly harder time – he was covered in gear. He had to remove his stethoscope and belt. They had him take off the black boots, and the contents of his backpack was carefully scrutinized. Lance suspected that they were going to confiscate the water bottles and the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that Hunk had apparently packed in secret that Lance was surprised to see when the guards pulled them into the open. But in the end, they allowed everything through once Lance had shown them his ID and his volunteer EMT card.

It was Keith's turn to laugh uneasily as Lance came away, pushing the chair with one hand and carrying his boots with the other toward the waiting area that Shiro had mentioned.

"You'd think _you_ were the criminal," Keith told him as he sat uncomfortably in the chair watching Lance retie his laces.

"That was actually a lot better than I thought it was going to be," Lance returned, finishing up and looking toward the doors for Shiro. "How are you doing?"

"Just don't ask."

Lance reached over to pat Keith's knee, appreciating the wheelchair at the same time he hated how it was keeping him so distant. Keith put his hand over Lance's, needing the contact, unable to sit upright, and still trembling. They sat silently together this way for several more minutes, waiting. There weren't many people in this area of the courthouse, but the ones who did move past them did so with nervous glances at Keith, who bowed his head so he wouldn't see how everyone was avoiding him. Lance hated them for it, but understood. Keith looked terrible, part plague victim and part Hannibal Lecter.

"There's Shiro," Lance told him comfortingly as he spotted the entirely black suit coming past the brightness of the doors. There was expectedly a bit of an issue with the metal detectors and Shiro's prosthetic. He had to remove his suit coat and roll back his sleeve so he could be examined, though he took it all with the familiar grace of someone who is asked to do this sort of thing all the time.

He spotted them quickly after he was cleared to enter, and Lance watched him stare at Keith as he crossed the polished floor to where they waited. Without a bit of a pause, he went down to one knee in front of the wheelchair to make eye contact with his adopted brother, reaching up to place a hand at the back of Keith's neck. He wisely did not ask Keith how he was doing, taking all his answers from just studying him this way.

"We're on the fourth floor," Shiro told them, standing to take custody of Keith's wheelchair, pushing it with certainty towards the elevators. Keith shrank into the seat, curling miserably to one side, ashamed and terrified. Lance flanked the chair, keeping an eye on Keith even as he took in the building.

For some reason, he'd expected it to be covered in dark wood paneling, but it was much more modern than that. The walls were painted a light dove gray, the tile almost the same color as the hospital. Instead of wood trim there was galvanized metal, and it seemed as though all of the doors, at least on the main level, were made of glass. The outside of the courthouse looked as old as the city itself, but the inside had been updated pretty recently.

The fourth floor was nearly identical to the first, though the doors up here were much more solid, because up here was where the secrets were. Where trials happened. Pictures of past judges, administrators, and donors lined the walls at regular intervals along with several pictures of what Chicago had looked like when this place had been built. The hallway eventually gave way to another waiting area, but Lance knew they were close before he saw it because he could hear Krolia long before they got there.

She didn't see them; her entire focus was on her phone as she paced in a frenzy along the far wall. They all stopped just a few steps away from blocking the hallway, though Lance was the only one who did so in shock and not out of respect for the privacy of her conversation. However, at her volume level there was nothing private about it.

"Keith, that's your lawyer?" Lance sort of gasped the question.

"Yeah," Keith confirmed, not near as emotional about it as Lance was, but he'd spent more time with her and had built up some immunity to her presence.

"Dude, you have nothing to worry about," Lance breathed, watching Krolia. What Keith had mentioned was true; she was taller than Lance, but not by very much. Still, she seemed taller because she was indeed an extreme kind of thin. But there was no weakness to her figure; she was as strong as a slim steel rod, and as she paced there in her blood red stilettos, Lance had an abrupt revelation as to what people meant when they were said to be dressed _sharp_.

Krolia wore a pale gray pantsuit with claret pinstripes that had been pressed immaculately smooth and fit her so perfectly that there was no way it had not been made for her. As she made an angry turn, he got a glimpse of the front, noting the modesty of the neckline and how Krolia deflected attention from where her buttons started to a rather stunning pendant of an eclipsing moon on a thick silver chain. Her hair was dyed – again the deep red color that she seemed to favor, and cut short, the kind of style that seemed post-apocalyptic in its chaos but was actually accomplished with tiny strokes by a trained hand with a razor. She'd gelled it so that it stood out from her face in wavy sorts of spikes that would have looked more goth than professional on anyone other than her, but which cooperated extremely well with the sharp features of her face and gave her a vampiric, ageless, paleness to her skin tone.

"I don't care about the snow," she was yelling into the phone. "We all live here; we all know about the snow! I got here early – my client is here from the fucking hospital, so bad roads are hardly an excuse, Phillip. Everyone's here, so you get your asses down here too. Now!"

So it seemed she had noticed them after all, though she'd made no acknowledgement until after she'd hung up, looking rather unsatisfied that all she could do was click a button instead of slamming a receiver into a wall.

"The Hunts are having trouble getting through the snow," Krolia sneered distastefully in greeting as she stalked the waiting area toward them. "They would like to postpone until this afternoon so the plows have more time to clear things." She had her lips curled in a predatory way, and she moved with a rather sinister intensity. God, she was glorious. Lance felt his heart speed up, amazed that he could be both terrified and partially aroused at the same time.

He remembered one of the songs that Hunk liked listening to, some strange zippy thing where the singer attempted to describe his idea of the perfect woman. Surprisingly, though it made reference to her physicality, it was more about her persona, and Lance had thought the whole thing so out there that it was almost incomprehensible to him until the very woman from the song was suddenly standing here in front of him – albeit in a pantsuit instead of a long jacket – though now Lance understood what fingernails looked like when they shined like justice. Apparently, justice was the color of blood and the nails were so long they could maybe slit throats. And Krolia's voice, that was definitely dark as tinted glass, also carried a hint of a growl in every syllable.

Like Shiro, Krolia went immediately to her knees in front of Keith, though she did not soften. If anything, she tensed up at the sight of him, her fury almost visibly steaming off her clothes. From his position behind Keith, Lance could now see that Krolia had gray eyes that were just like the rest of her - sharp.

"Oh my God, Kit, look at you," she told him, a wild sort of affectionate worry in the words, reaching out to touch him, cupping her hands around each of Keith's elbows. The arch of her eyebrows drew inward, and she frowned at Keith's condition. "I'll make them hurry, ok?"

Keith nodded, and Krolia pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve to efficiently wipe Keith's eyes for him. Her motions were sure, but as Lance studied her closely (couldn't keep his eyes off her) he could tell that she was uneasy with this. That nurturing was not her strong suit, and she would much rather cage-fight someone than deal with anything emotional. It was taking a lot of her energy to behave this way toward Keith.

Meanwhile, Keith was struggling not to cry, almost choking behind the mask, allowing himself to be weak in Krolia's presence, probably because Krolia herself seemed more than strong enough for both of them. In a fight anyway – Keith's tears were distressing to her.

"Why the hell are you muzzled like a dog?" Krolia asked fiercely, taking it upon herself to start removing the black mask, and Lance moved before he thought about it, putting a hand around her wrist to stop her. And though he knew she was moving slow, her attention snapped onto him with a ferocity that made it seem far too quick and hard. Lance found he could no longer speak.

"Keith's wearing a mask because he's still contagious," Shiro spoke on his behalf, not seeming intimidated in the least by Krolia's presence. Military. "We're trying to minimize the risk."

"Damn the risk," she said to Shiro. "I hope he infects everyone in that room, and they'd deserve it for forcing him into this freak show."

"It's ok, Krolia," Keith's words were hard to hear, but they were all close enough to him that he was understandable. "The mask is to protect you. You're the one who will be closest to me in there, and I really don't want anyone to catch this, least of all you."

"That's sweet, Kit, but I don't mind if you want to take it off. You look so miserable."

"Taking the mask off isn't going to help with that," Keith informed her, and Lance watched her jaw clench as she realized that Keith was suffering and there was absolutely nothing she could do, no one she could fight, that would make it any better for him. The tension in her arm changed, causing Lance to release her – more than a little frightened by what she might do. She stood with a controlled slow elegance that trembled into Lance's stomach. Holy shit, this woman was scary.

"I'm going to rip their throats out," she promised with a cruel smile, and Lance swore that her canines were longer than normal. She looked like she actually might have fangs. "You see if I don't. If they don't let you off today, I'm going to descend on them with so many appeals and mistrial accusations it will rival the plagues of Egypt."

Lance felt that unhinged giggling threatening to burst out of him again, so he bit his tongue hard to prevent it, clinging rather desperately to Keith's shoulder. He'd heard violence as a form of affection before, from Pidge, but she was nowhere near Krolia's level. When Pidge said she would murder you, it was cute. When Krolia said the same thing, it was terrifying. She handed Keith her handkerchief.

"So what are the chances of this being postponed?" Shiro cut in with the most practical of questions. Lance would like that answered too. Would it mean that they could take Keith home and wait another day? Another week? He wasn't sure if that would be a good thing to have this continue to hang over Keith that long. On the other hand, he wouldn't mind if it could be pushed back until the snow completely melted.

"Zero," Krolia assured. "If the Hunts can't make it, we'll proceed without them. Just because they want to watch doesn't mean their presence is required. All the main cast is accounted for." She turned her harsh gaze onto Lance again. "Plus an unexpected extra. Takashi, who is this? I told you the courtroom is closed. It was already a hassle to get you allowed inside."

Lance did his best to stand straight and look professional, like he had every reason to be here, though he was so far out of his element.

"This is Lance," Shiro made the simplest of introductions. "He's an EMT from the hospital, training under the ER doctor who treated Keith. And if I get to pick which one of us goes in with Keith, it will be him over me. Though I thought if anyone could get us both in, it'd be you."

Krolia smiled again, this time sly, her eyes narrowing at Shiro, knowing exactly what he was trying to do in order to get something from her. However, Lance could see that Shiro had played his hand correctly. He'd touched something in Krolia by challenging her, though she wasn't ready to give in just yet. Instead, she walked around Keith, staring hard at Lance, who didn't have to look up very often to meet someone's gaze and found it extremely intimidating. Krolia smelled like very fancy soap and whiskey, a mixture that was intoxicatingly attractive to Lance, and he felt that if this woman had only come this close to strangle him, he'd likely submit without hesitation.

"The ER doctor, you say," Krolia spoke low, the growl still there. "And is this the EMT who helped her prepare the testimonial in Kit's file?"

That's right," Shiro confirmed, not sounding very sure all of a sudden. As though they'd discussed that piece of paper at length last night in a not-so-positive way.

"In that case, he's waiting for us right here," Krolia decided in an unpredictable flash. And Lance suddenly found that he could speak after all.

"What?" He said, confused. "Why?"

Krolia was on him immediately, grabbing his chin, the sharp points of her perfectly manicured nails pricking into his cheeks, rendering him speechless again.

"Because you're the sort of person who causes trouble," she told him dangerously. "The kind who doesn't understand how things should be handled via proper channels, who isn't going to sit still and keep his mouth shut. And that's the last thing I need when we're in there. What were you thinking, taking confidential evidence from a closed court case and displaying it in the ER? Asking for unsanctioned medical testimony? You just be grateful that I shredded it before anyone else found out what you did."

"You . . . shredded it?" Lance choked out past the grip she had on his face. All that hard work, all that he'd asked of Dr. Delacroix, all for nothing.

"You're welcome," she hissed.

"Krolia, please," Keith interrupted, grabbing on to Lance's arm and using it to get himself out of the wheelchair, in preparation to stand between them. But the pain in his back was too much for him to stand straight, or on his own. He winced, folding alarmingly forward, and Lance braced him while Krolia again took hold of his elbows, scrutinizing the situation. Shiro hurried to Keith's other side to help keep him from falling, and he sagged between them all, but stared strong at Krolia. "We didn't know; he was just trying to help me."

"You of all people should know that intent doesn't always justify the crime," Krolia said, as if unable to yield on any point.

"Please, Krolia," Keith begged a second time, but for a different thing. "He's my friend."

"Please, yourself," Krolia shot back. "Enough of this; Kit, you're shaking. Sit back down."

As Shiro and Lance helped Keith return to the wheelchair, Krolia sighed, watching Keith's pain as though it belonged to her, then turned her burning gaze back to Lance. "If I do this," she began her conditions. "You sit in the back and do not move or speak. You call absolutely no attention to yourself, do you understand me?"

Lance's instinct was to return with a "_Sí, Doña,_" since she was so formidable, but he switched it out to a simple, "Yes, Ma'am," that didn't seem to pacify her in the least.

"No guarantees either," she gave a final caveat. "But I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, wait here."

**Author's Note: Yes, let's all wait for Krolia . . even though it's maddening. But hey, they finally met each other. We finally got into the courthouse. Things are happening. Just gotta wait a little longer. Where are those Hunts?**


	23. Breaking Point

**Author's Note: Oh my goodness, everyone, how are you doing? The world sort of ended, didn't it? And so quickly. My place of employment shut down and now we're all working remotely. My family packed up in the dead of night and fled the state to our other house In The Middle of Nowhere. (Seriously, we don't even have Internet, I'm using the Hot Spot on my phone to post this for you; you're welcome.) And we're one of those families where we are busier now than we've ever been. My husband is working as fast as he can to help people who are now severely struggling financially. I'm also still working and keeping my kids busy (taking care of chickens and fishing for our dinner is helping with that – yeah, that far into NOWHERE, that's where we are). But anyway, the point is, we are all healthy and well and actually quite blessed. I'm worried for the world right now and doing my best to send happiness and good thoughts out into it. By knitting socks the color of sunshine and sending them to a friend as a surprise. By writing letters to people I haven't spoken to in a while. And by giving you guys something new to read. Let me know if you're ok!  
**

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Breaking Point**

The moment Krolia's powerful form disappeared down a different hallway, Lance's brain suddenly supplied him with everything he should have said to her. Too late, he internally growled at himself, hating how it was always like that. His spirit retreated, sulking, coiling around one of the last things Krolia had said that Lance couldn't shake, couldn't believe.

"She shredded it," he whispered to himself, still staring after her, still paralyzed in the aftermath of her presence. But saying those words out loud clicked his neurons functional again, and he whirled on Shiro. "She _shredded _it?" He repeated, this time with high-pitched accusation.

"Lance?" Keith questioned, still tapped into Lance's emotions. Meanwhile, Shiro raised his hands in good-natured defense.

"I'm sorry, Lance," he apologized immediately. "I know how hard you worked on it, but it can't be used and it's better if no one knows it ever existed. I was certainly going to tell you, though not quite like that. I should have never let you see what was in the file to begin with; she's right, it was confidential. "

And not only had all that work been for nothing, now the fact that he'd even tried had biased Krolia against allowing Lance into the courtroom with Keith. Lance folded his arms, forcing himself to stand still for Keith's sake, though he wanted to storm after Krolia. Wanted to start throwing chairs.

"If it helps at all," Shiro continued, but Lance had very little hope of anything he was about to say being actually helpful. "Krolia did say that it was an elegant and impressive argument." Lance exhaled so hard through his nose that it came out as an angry snort. No, that did not help. At least, he didn't want it to help.

"It wasn't homework; I don't need a grade," Lance snapped, turning his face away, hoping that any blush on his face would be read as anger and nothing more.

"She also said," Shiro went on, voice slower as though he were weighing his words carefully. "Well, she mentioned that should we need to go any farther with this than today, she'd be interested in contacting Dr. Delacroix to ask for her analysis in a more official capacity. However," here Shiro looked very pointedly at Keith. "No one thinks that will be necessary."

Lance found himself almost overpowered in the need to move, quickly and furiously, though he knew that Keith hated it when he did things like that. It was probably driving Keith crazy enough already with Lance standing here drumming his fingers against his arms, eyes scanning over the room, counting the chairs instead of throwing them to try and get a hold on himself. Would Krolia even try to get him in at this point? It'd be so easy for her to return and shrug and pretend she'd done her best.

And where did she get off insinuating that he was a person who caused trouble? She had been the one with her fingernails practically in his throat. She was the one who yelled obscenities into phones and threatened death for minor infractions, terror clinging to her like a perfume. And _he_ was the one she was worried about in the courtroom? She was worried that_ he_ wasn't going to be able to control himself? She'd seen him for less than five minutes; they'd barely spoken to each other, and he'd been nothing but the picture of calm cooperation. Lance heard himself make that furious exhale again at the sheer hypocrisy of it.

"Lance, hey," Keith was calling him, making him shake his hands loose, getting ready to refocus. Keith reached out to him, his eyes enormous over the mask, his other hand pressed against his chest. "Why don't you take my blood pressure or something?" Lance blinked, confused at the odd request. "You know, before we have to do something about yours."

Lance's lips jerked upward in a worried sort of smirk, not wanting to admit how witty that comment had been, nor how much he'd needed it. While Keith and Xanax were turning out to be an interesting combination, Keith shouldn't have to push himself like that to calm Lance; that was the exact opposite of his reason for coming.

"I suppose you think you're funny," Lance responded, pulling all the emotion out of his voice. He took a step toward Keith and took hold of his hand for no other reason than he wanted to touch him, noticing the tremor still all down his arm. Then Lance too went to his knees on the floor in front of the wheelchair. Keith might have been joking, but it did seem that now would be the perfect time to get some stats and finally have Keith take his heart medication. It looked like he might be a little overdue on the dose, and who knew what was going to happen in the next few minutes, when Krolia would come back. "But that is a good idea."

"Wait, you actually brought it . . of course you did," Keith sighed as Lance pulled the blood pressure cuff free of his backpack. Keith winced as he moved, his eyes closing involuntarily against the deep ache in his lower back, but he put forward his arm so Lance could strap the cuff to it. Lance didn't comment as he watched Keith deal with the pain. He pulled his stethoscope out from under his collar instead, pushing himself into what he knew best. It wasn't exactly helpful, but it was at least comforting. For him, at least. Meanwhile, Shiro pulled up one of the chairs, sitting close to them and watching.

"Why is it whenever I get mad, _your_ heart is the one that acts up?" Lance asked quietly as he listened to Keith's pulse via the stethoscope. For the most part, it was beating fine, but every so often as Lance changed position, putting a hand on Keith here and there to also shift him into place so he could hear better, he heard a definite jump and then racing for a short period of time.

Keith appeared rather startled and a little afraid of this rhetorical question, stiffening in the chair enough that Shiro put a comforting hand on his arm. Lance listened to his heart shudder.

"I . . . don't know?" Keith answered hesitantly. "Should I know?"

"No," Lance assured, concerned. "Don't look so scared, Lobito; I'm messing with you. I don't think there's any actual correlation." He'd thought that they were both using humor as defense today, but judging from Keith's reaction to what he'd just said, apparently, he'd been wrong. "Your heart is definitely getting better. It's still jumpy, though not as extreme as it was, but to keep it tamed down, let's get some medicine into you."

Lance removed the blood pressure cuff and took a moment to write everything down from his stats check. Temperature an encouraging 102.3, blood pressure nice and even at 105 / 70, heart rate still fast at 90, and oxygen saturation level doing ok at ninety-four percent. Those numbers on anyone else would have caused Lance to scramble into full treatment mode, but they were such an improvement for Keith that all he felt was tired gratitude.

"Here," Lance handed Keith a water bottle that he'd opened for him and his first 50mg dose of Tenormin for the day. "We'll wait on the iron until later tonight since you haven't eaten anything yet and sometimes iron supplements can upset your stomach. But do you think you can keep this down for now?"

Keith nodded, accepting everything Lance gave him, but then seemed not to know how to take the medicine with the mask on.

"You can take that off," Lance gave him permission. "No one here but us. Go ahead."

Keith still hesitated, looking guiltily at Shiro, as if it had just now occurred to him how close Shiro had been in the last couple days. Every expression was magnified in his eyes since they were the only visible portion of his face.

"It's all right, Keith," Shiro told him, reading him easily. "I didn't ever stop to think about it either, but I'm not worried. Take it off and take your medicine."

Keith pulled the mask off his ears and under his chin, ready to be tugged on again at a moment's notice, and dutifully did as he was told. He seemed to swallow much easier than the last time Lance had watched him take a pill, so he pulled one of Hunk's sandwiches out too on the off chance that he could be as successful in getting Keith to eat some of it.

"No," Keith protested before Lance had even mentioned him taking a bite.

"You sure?" Lance encouraged, not wanting to push too hard, but who knew how long they were going to be stuck here today. This might be Keith's only chance for calories for hours. "Hunk made it."

Keith stared at him, unimpressed, and Lance knew why. There wasn't a whole lot that could be done with a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

"And by made it, I mean the bread and the jam, and I think he might have grown the strawberries himself – he's got a little plant on the counter next to all the herbs. This isn't just a sandwich anymore. This? This is –"

"Would you shut up?" Keith blurted and for a second Lance thought he had indeed pushed too hard, but then he saw Keith's open hand. He smiled in relieved triumph and passed over the sandwich, watching as Keith tore it in two, very unequal halves. "Here." Keith gave back the much bigger piece. "Since coffee isn't much of a breakfast either."

Lance didn't dare tell Keith that coffee had been Lance's breakfast for over a year now. At least on weekdays. Instead he pulled the second sandwich from the bag to offer to Shiro, who declined with a polite shake of his head.

Lance ate for the sole reason of trying not to make it awkward for Keith to eat alone. Keith took extremely slow and small bites, pulling them from the sandwich with his fingers instead of his teeth. And all throughout, he shifted in continuous and increasing discomfort, until he had to give up on the sandwich completely, rewrapping it in the plastic Hunk had protected it in so his hands would be free to shift him from the wheelchair, heading to the floor.

"Keith?" Lance checked him, preparing to catch him if necessary.

"I can't sit like that anymore," Keith practically gasped, joining Lance on his knees, trying to find some relief for the cramping ache in his back. Lance knew it was rather futile. Since the cause of the pain wasn't due to position or muscle strain, there wasn't really a good way to move or sit that would improve it. But Keith still curled over, again resting his head against Lance's lap, not knowing any of that, trying to find some position of comfort.

"Isn't there anything we can do?" Shiro asked, also drawn to the floor by Keith's suffering, watching him with pity.

"A heating pad might help," Lance said, knowing it would be impossible to procure one in this place. "But mostly it just has to work itself out." Both he and Shiro had their hands on Keith now, resting their palms against the stiff fabric of the suit coat drawn taut against the curve of his spine. "It'd be nice if Krolia really would hurry them up." So we can take Keith home. Please let us be able to take Keith home.

"Why does it hurt so much?" Keith whimpered, sounding so done with everything, almost angry. Lance took a breath in preparation to answer, but then realized that Keith probably didn't actually want to hear about the dead and dying virus gathering into his kidneys, how knowing what was causing the pain wouldn't really help. "I can't get away from it."

Shiro and Lance exchanged glances over Keith's crumpled body. Shiro seemed to be asking more questions; didn't Lance have any other ideas for soothing this? And Lance was simply frustrated because yes he did have ideas but none of them were possible on the cold tile floor of a courthouse waiting room. Still, he looked around, hoping something would come to him.

"Keith? Hey, take another drink for me," Lance requested, gently pushing Keith upright. Because flushing the kidneys would help make this part go faster, which meant hydration and movement. "Then we're going to take a little walk over to that wall."

"Lance," Keith began, defeated.

"I know," he acknowledged. It was going to suck, and it was going to hurt, but this really was the best he had to offer. Keith obediently swallowed another mouthful of water before relinquishing the bottle to Shiro for safekeeping. Then he allowed Lance to pull him to his feet, with much difficulty, and together they made their way to the far wall where instead of chairs, Lance had spotted a smallish, padded bench seat underneath a huge portrait of George N. Leighton himself. Keith walked as though all his tendons had been pulled too tightly and no longer had enough elastic in them to allow any of his limbs to bend.

"Shiro," Lance called over his shoulder only to realize that Shiro was right behind him, walking silent and keeping guard. "Oh! Would you mind sitting down there? I'm going to have you hold him." For a moment, Shiro looked confused, not about the direction, but on why Lance was asking him instead of doing it himself, maybe. The reason was simple, but Lance didn't want to say it out loud. He wanted Shiro to hold Keith because he was stronger than Lance. Also, because Lance was going to use his hands as a natural heating pad, and well . . he had both hands available for the job.

"Here we go, Keith," Lance helped him settle in against Shiro, who had his arms open and ready for him. "Like we were in the car."

Ready to follow any suggestion that might alleviate the pain, Keith rested easily against Shiro's chest while Lance went to the floor again, reaching both hands up under Keith's shirt to press them against the small of his back, over the lumbar puncture scars, leaning into it to put deeper pressure into the touch. Keith groaned as the pain changed, but Lance knew that sometimes even a different kind of pain was its own relief. Shiro tightened his hold, and Lance could see how much Shiro wanted to keep Keith with him in the gesture.

"Where did Krolia go?" Lance murmured, wondering why she'd been gone so long when she seemed to be made of rush and movement. He wasn't certain what time it was; the lack of clocks in this space seemed to be a deliberate choice to keep those waiting disoriented and frustrated. But Lance was certain it had to be past ten.

The irony of Lance's impatience wasn't lost on him. He'd wanted to push this back as long as possible, but now that they were actually in the building and ready, he wanted to get it over with immediately. Because the tightness of the anticipation was making everything worse, here where it was obvious that there was no going back or getting out of it. Now that Lance knew there was only one way out and that was forward, he wanted to just get going. What was taking everyone so long? What had to get done and finished for them to sit in a room and hear a verdict being read? Not that he knew much about it, but it seemed a simple enough thing. Something that could be done and dusted in half an hour.

Lance knelt on the floor with his hands pushed against Keith's back long enough that his own back was starting to ache from maintaining the position. He forced himself not to shift, not to fidget in any way, not to give Keith any reason to think he had to move and not wanting Shiro to be the only one capable of sitting motionless for however many hours this was going to take. In the end, it wasn't his own discomfort that forced him to his feet. It was Keith's.

Keith had started the gasped-loop breathing again, holding his breath as if that complete stillness would do something, twitching and trembling in Shiro's arms until Lance just couldn't take it anymore. This was stupid; if no one was coming back, then why didn't they just walk out? If no one could be bothered to update them on what was going on, then did they really have to stay?

"Lance?" Keith croaked, shuddering as Lance removed his hands from him to stand up. "What?"

"Breathe deeper, Keith; I'm going to find Krolia," Lance decided affirmatively. "It's crazy the way they're treating you. They were so insistent you be here on time and now they're going to ignore you? Not on my watch."

"Lance, stay here," Shiro intervened, looking like he wanted to jump up and grab Lance's arm to keep him from running off.

"Relax," Lance assured, or maybe warned; he didn't want to upset Keith. "I'm just –"

"Intending on proving my point, _Acere_?"

Lance's spine straightened without any prompting from his consciousness, hating how he couldn't ever just feel one sensation at a time when it came to Krolia. This particular emotional cocktail was one part guilt that she'd caught him doing exactly what she'd told him not to do, one part fury for making them wait so long that he'd thought it necessary to defy her, and one part impressed confusion as to how she'd correctly addressed him in Cuban slang. The one thing he wasn't feeling this time around was frightened or intimidated. Watching Keith suffer had removed both of those.

"Not sure what you're talking about. What point? Did I actually do anything wrong?" he challenged her with his back still turned. "What about the part where you said you were going to hurry? What happened to that?"

"Lance," Shiro warned quietly as he helped Keith to sit upright beside him on the bench because of course Keith couldn't stand to continue being held when there was a larger audience than Lance around to see it.

"I know it's not your fault," Lance backtracked, but only slightly, finally shifting to turn and face her. "But waiting around like this isn't good for him, so what the hell is taking so long?"

Krolia met his gaze with an intense calmness that almost buckled Lance's resolve, almost made him apologize for his outburst, but then he saw that she wasn't alone this time. There was a man at her side, no, not actually next to her. He stood a few paces back, watching the proceedings with a critical purse to his lips. He wore a tan suit with an admittedly impressive blue paisley tie, and he stood with a presence that indicated how little he cared that he was so many inches shorter than Krolia. There was an impatience in his stance as well, in the tilt of his hips and in the hand that he lifted to adjust his glasses. The immediate disgust that flooded Lance just from looking at him kept him standing straight against them both, a demand for an answer in the strength of his posture. Krolia's head tilted at Lance as he let the silence draw out, a tiny smile just touching her mouth – not quite the reaction that Lance had expected for his behavior.

"Ok - I see why you like him now, Kit," Krolia said to Keith, who was pulling his mask securely back in place now that she'd returned and brought company. "And to answer your question,we're waiting for the judge now as well as the Hunts. This storm has pushed more sessions back than just ours. However, now that Mr. Rozensweig has finally arrived, he's insisting that it's time for Kit to come with us."

Lance glanced backward at Keith, meeting his eyes for a moment. There was a drugged calmness to them, a weariness that was beyond emotion, as though Keith were too tired for even fear at this point. He reached out almost casually to Lance to help him stand up, compliant, submissive. Like this was all too familiar for him. Like there was no reason to resist or question. Lance copied him though his spirit ached inside to see Keith's so broken, pulling him to his feet and drawing his arm around his shoulders, keeping him close as if he could share his strength. Shiro did the same on the other side, ready to escort Keith where ever he was supposed to go.

"Tamsyn, what is this?" The man, the Hunts' lawyer, said to Krolia, more than a little put out, his voice higher than Lance expected considering the darkness of his expression. It made Lance dislike him even more. Lance took a deep breath to tell him off, forgetting that he didn't actually have to do that himself seeing as Krolia was standing with them and was much more capable.

"I've already explained, Phillip," Krolia responded coldly, deciding to also address him by his first name in return for him using hers. "He's been in the hospital all weekend and still needs medical attention. I told you that there was an EMT assigned on call in case of an emergency."

"What? This kid?" Phillip snorted, gesturing vaguely at Lance, who felt his chin jerk upwards. He was getting a little tired of being dismissed this way because of his age and appearance. "Looks more like he's going trick-or-treating to me, Tamsyn; you could have tried harder."

"I _am_ an EMT," Lance protested forcefully, but Krolia glared him into silence before he could go into a tirade about why it would be a good idea for him to stay with Keith. He wasn't even sure where they were going to take him if the meeting had been pushed back.

"If you say so," Phillip gave in condescendingly. "But you can do your job from here. We'll know where to find you if we need you."

There was so much wrong with that Lance didn't know where to start. He didn't even have a phone on him; it could take several minutes to send someone to get him if necessary. Not to mention that if he just stayed with Keith he could monitor him better than anyone else in the room and probably keep an emergency from happening to begin with.

"I recommend keeping them together," Shiro cut in on Lance's behalf. Or maybe Keith's. Maybe both; it was hard to tell. Lance didn't like how the conversation was going, didn't like anything about the room or the atmosphere or Phillip. "He can take my place, if it's a matter of numbers."

"It has nothing to do with numbers," Phillip said, speaking much more respectfully to Shiro than he had to any other person in the waiting area. Because Shiro's strong presence just encouraged that sort of thing. "It's a matter of privacy. My clients are grieving. They don't need the unexpected presence of so many strangers crowding them during this difficult time."

"Phillip," Krolia began.

"Enough, Tamsyn," he bravely cut her off. "Quit stalling. Or should I go get the Deputy Sheriff to speed this up?"

Krolia looked down on Phillip as though she'd love nothing more than to get him alone in a dark alley somewhere. She had her mouth slightly open, her lips curled back, reminding Lance of a wolf when it's about to tear out a throat. He waited expectantly for her to do just that, some verbal attack that would cut Phillip down and bring him around to her way of thinking. Go on, Krolia, Lance mentally encouraged her, actually a little excited to watch. Tear him to pieces.

"That won't be necessary," Krolia snarled, and Lance felt completely betrayed. Where was the fight in her? Why had she given in so quickly? Was she really that mad at him for trying to write that testimonial? Watching her back down here also made Lance wonder what the actual trial had been like. Had she truly fought as hard as she could for Keith's freedom? Done all that was possible to do?

"Then let's go," Phillip droned, motioning for them to head down the hall to some mysterious destination.

"Give us a minute. God knows you've had more than you deserve, and you know they aren't here yet," Krolia shot at him with such fierceness that for a half a second he looked properly afraid. When she turned back to Keith, she was gentle again.

"Now that the Hunts could enter the building at any moment, it's time for Kit to go into protective custody," Krolia explained quickly. "Both parties need to be kept in secret, separate locations for their own safety until the judge arrives. For your information," she looked pointedly at Lance, who knew that he was glaring at her but he couldn't seem to stop. He just couldn't believe she'd given up on him so easily. "It's a much more comfortable room than this one. I've got you a couch and everything, Kit, since apparently no one knows how long we're going to be stuck here."

"But there really is no way to allow Lance to stay with us?" Shiro double checked, as though he too had noticed how quickly Krolia had folded. "I'd feel more comfortable with him around; Keith's . . . not as stable as he looks. If something happens, it will be unexpected and fast."

"Unfortunately, I can't even let you go with him for this part," Krolia informed them, which made Keith seem to wake up a little between them.

"Not even Shiro?" He asked, a little bubbled question of fear, and Lance could feel his breathing speed up since he was still so tight against his side. "I thought you said he had permission. He's my brother."

"Sorry, Kit," Krolia really did seem to mean it. "That's not legally recognized yet, and those are the court rules. Takashi will be waiting for you in the courtroom when the time comes. The only person who can stay with you right now is me, and I will as long as I can."

Keith looked again to Lance, then to Shiro, a desperate sort of study, like he wanted to remember what they looked like because he expected to never see either of them again. And even though Lance was furious and frightened, he forced himself to smile supportively. He took over the full load of holding Keith upright while Shiro went across the room to retrieve the wheelchair, deciding at the spur of the moment to grab Keith in a parting hug, wishing he could hold him tight enough to stop him trembling. He felt Keith's hands on his back, felt him bury his face against his neck.

"It's ok, Keith; I'll just wait for you here," Lance said, as though it didn't matter, as though it wasn't a big deal at all. "They'll come get me if you need me. Right?" He asked Krolia, trying to keep the bite out of his voice. She looked at him with an amused sort of pride.

"Certainly," she confirmed.

"I'll see you soon," Lance told Keith with as much conviction as he could, helping him sit, preparing him to be wheeled away by Krolia. He wanted to say something else, wanted to stroke the side of Keith's face, wanted to put his hand behind his neck and kiss him. But he didn't want to say good-bye, didn't want to put any hint into the universe that he thought Keith might not come back. So he grasped his hand in parting, a good luck instead of a good bye, and then watched helplessly as Krolia bent down over the handles of the chair and wheeled Keith away behind Phillip to an undisclosed location somewhere in the building where she would supposedly stay with him, supposedly take care of him. Though Lance had already seen that Krolia wasn't big on the nurturing scene. He hoped she at least wasn't kidding about the couch. He wanted Keith to be able to lie flat, ease the strain on his back as much as possible.

Keith had his head turned, twisted in the chair to look back at Lance and Shiro, keeping them within his sight until Krolia turned him down a different hallway, completely out of their view, possibly the last they would ever see each other. It was only when he was fully gone that Lance raised his arm to wipe the tears out of his eyes and gave in to his own pain from the separation. Shiro noticed immediately and gently put his arms around him, allowing him to seek comfort against him as if they were old friends.

"She didn't even try," Lance wept against Shiro's black suit.

"We don't know that for sure," Shiro somehow remained free of judgment on the subject. "This place doesn't allow for much flexibility."

"If that were true, we would have been done and on our way home by now," Lance returned, exceptionally bitter. "They're still playing favorites." It just felt so incredibly personal, even though Shiro had been denied permission to stay with Keith too. The way that man had stared at Lance, though, the obnoxious smirk on his face, not believing that Lance was who he said he was when he'd worked so hard at it.

Lance stepped backward, suddenly too angry now to cry, and Shiro released him. They stood together in silence, in a strange place with an uncertain future. How long would it take? What was going to happen? Would Keith be ok without them? Would Krolia coax him to drink? Would she really stay with him? Questions that Lance wanted to ask out loud but didn't because he knew that Shiro didn't know anything more than he did. And the only people who did know weren't around to ask and probably wouldn't answer even if they could.

"There you are," a rather familiar voice broke into the moody standoff. Lance raised his eyes from the floor to see Officer Guist joining them, his uniform slightly different from the security guards at the entrance, an actual revolver holstered on his belt. "Oh," he continued as he recognized Lance. "And you're still around too, huh?"

"Hey Fritz," Shiro greeted, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Lance even as he took a step forward to shake hands with the officer. "You're assigned to us or are you on your way to something else?"

"I'm with you, have been from the beginning," Guist answered. "Krolia said you were here, asked me to take you into the courtroom to wait. Most of the jury is already there, so once the judge arrives, the doors will be locked right away."

Krolia might have told Guist that Shiro was there, but Lance knew that he'd been left out of the invitation because Guist had been surprised to see him. Shiro seemed to come to the same conclusion.

"She didn't say anything about Lance coming too?" Shiro checked.

"Sorry, no, just you," Guist returned, looking apologetically at Lance, who tried not to wilt like a teenager. He was in uniform. He was a professional. He was going to act like it even if no one was going to treat him with any sort of dignity or respect. "He'd better wait here."

"That's so stupid," Lance judged, but switched topics rapidly when both of the older men gave him dark looks. "Watch him for me," Lance advised Shiro, feeling slighted and ignored and helpless. "Make sure they let him have water and they don't make him stand up too long. Don't let them hurt him."

Officer Guist watched Lance very solemnly as he spoke, his gaze shifting every so often to Shiro as if to check that Lance wasn't being overly protective or dramatic about this. But Shiro was every bit as serious in accepting any advice Lance had to offer.

"If you can, tell Krolia to pay attention to his breathing," Lance finished. "Make sure he's not holding it like he keeps doing. Have her speed the meeting up as much as she can; he really shouldn't even be here and they've already kept him waiting so long." 

"He's still that bad?" Officer Guist asked, breaking a little hesitantly into the exchange. "I thought – well, they let him out of the hospital, right?"

"He's getting better," Lance acknowledged, though he was picturing Keith in the wheelchair. "But he's a long way from recovered. I . . . I have his medication if . . . you know, if he . . if they decide. . .he'll need it. Maybe you should take it?" Lance offered his backpack to Shiro.

"No, you hold onto it," Guist told him, putting a hand over Lance's to gently push the offered bag back toward him. "We'll come find you if we need to get it."

"But," Lance wanted to beg to be allowed to come with them, furious that no one seemed to be taking this with the seriousness that it required. That no one cared about Keith enough to even try to keep him safe.

"I'll make sure to bring you to him to retrieve anything he might need," Guist said again, this time weighing his tone with a meaning that Lance understood. He was trying to do him a favor. He was trying to make it so Lance could see Keith again, one last time, if everything went horribly wrong in that courtroom and the jury had reached a guilty verdict. It was such an unexpected kindness that Lance wasn't sure how to acknowledge it. In the end, all he could do was sigh, rather shakily, holding his backpack to his chest with both hands.

"Ok," he gave in for the second time in the past twenty minutes, realizing that he was going to be left alone in this waiting room. He'd canceled all his plans for the day knowing that he wouldn't be able to concentrate on classes or work, but he'd never expected that he'd spend his time waiting to learn about Keith's future all alone in this place.

"Thank you, Lance," Shiro told him, putting a hand on his shoulder, not like an adult comforting a child, more like a soldier extending respect for Lance's different, but not any less difficult, part in all this.

"Take care of him," Lance responded, rooting himself to the spot and focusing his gaze on the legs of the nearest chair so he wouldn't have to watch Shiro leave with Guist to a place he was not welcome. He wanted to be worthy of the gesture that Shiro had just given him, wanted to prove that he could be whatever kind of brave was required.

"Hang in there, kid," Guist said before he left. And Lance did. He hung in there, motionless, as he listened to their footsteps fade around the corner. He hung in there as the silence of the clockless waiting room closed in around him, as though this place existed outside of time. When he finally did move again, it was to cast a scowl at the portrait of George Leighton, the person responsible for the construction of this building. Then Lance finally gave up and tossed his backpack into a chair to indulge himself in pacing. Hell, he was alone; no one was going to get annoyed watching him if there was literally no one but a portrait on the wall to see.

He counted steps as he stalked around the waiting area, punctuating the numbers with furious little pangs of indignation. Krolia hadn't even tried! Keith was alone with her. They were all taking so long to get things going; why the hell were they taking so long? But then again, he had no way of knowing exactly how long he'd been here. No phone to check in with Hunk and Pidge. No windows in this area of the building to even give him a guess as to how the sun was progressing in the world outside. There was nothing but gray walls and stiff plastic chairs and solitary waiting as far as he could see.

So he paced, changing direction through the chairs at random, like someone trying to dodge a bullet, worrying even though he knew it would do nothing except make him tired and frustrated. How had this even happened? What was he doing here? Not helping, that's for sure. Had he given Keith enough alcohol pads? Would he even need them? How long would the Xanax dose keep him from throwing up? Would it speed anyone up if he were to start?

"Wow, kid, you're worse than the one on trial."

Lance's body responded to the voice before his brain recognized who it was, tightening and twisting toward it, raising a hand as though he expected someone to hit him. Because he _was_ waiting for a blow, just not a physical one. Guist actually took a step backward, checking Lance up and down, noting the tenseness in him.

"Yeah, well, he has chemicals to help keep him calm," Lance said mostly to himself, not backing down much, though he did lower his arm. No sense in looking ridiculous, except it was probably too late.

"You really hate being away from him, don't you?" Guist drawled, as though he were bored, as if he had all the time in the world.

"It sort of defeats the purpose of why I came," Lance returned, reminding himself that it wasn't Guist's fault, again, that he was just doing his job. Like last time.

"Yeah, I was thinking about that. Here, Keith asked me to bring you this," Guist held out a can of soda. Lance very hesitantly reached out to take it. An extremely chilled ginger ale.

"It's not his, is it?" Lance asked, guessing that if Krolia or someone had bought it for Keith that he would turn it down and instead offer it to Lance. Because he was like that.

"You two," Guist sighed. "No, he has his own, and yes, he's drinking it. Watching him you'd think it had hot sauce in it, but he's drinking it." Guist unexpectedly took the can back from Lance, but only to open it for him, ramping up Lance's social obligation to actually drink it so he wouldn't be wasting it. Even though he couldn't remember ever drinking ginger ale before. "Says to tell you he's ok."

"Of course he did," Lance murmured, accepting the drink for the second time, knowing that Keith was so not ok that he wondered why he'd even bothered trying to lie to Lance about it. He should know that it wasn't something he could get away with, despite Lance not being able to see him anymore.

"So why'd they release him from the hospital anyway? Because you're right; he still looks rough." Guist kept talking, appearing at ease on the surface, but Lance wondered if he actually were as comfortable as he looked. Or maybe this was another part of his job. Though Lance couldn't think as to how making small talk in a waiting room could possibly be included in a Deputy Sheriff's job description.

"Long story," Lance dismissed, still feeling uncooperative and mad. It wasn't any of Guist's business anyway. "Though a big part of it was because Dr. Delacroix thought _I'd_ _be watching him_."

"Dr. Delacroix? She's the one I spoke to, right? The one in purple with all the braids?" Guist materialized yet another can of ginger ale apparently out of thin air and also cracked it open, as though they were friends sharing a drink after a jog or something. He was so casual about it that Lance felt himself relaxing automatically in response. "You know her first name?"

"Angelique," Lance supplied, monotone, studying Guist. What was he really doing here? Lance wasn't even supposed to be here, so why send Guist to babysit him? Guist took a long pull from his can, swallowing as he nodded to himself.

"She seems . . . efficient," Guist continued, staring at the portrait across the room from them, putting a nonchalant hand against the top of one of the chairs. And just like that, it clicked in Lance's head. Guist was interested in Angelique. He was probing Lance for information on her.

"She's a force of nature," Lance corrected.

"I can tell. Do you know if she's, um," Guist faltered, shrugging as though he had changed his mind about asking that question.

"Single?" Lance gave him the word he hadn't been able to say, feeling as though he'd been handed a little bit of control. He wondered if he could use this. Maybe exchange information about Angelique for . . what? Getting into the courtroom? Sneaking in to check on Keith where ever he was right now? He wasn't even sure that Guist could do either of those things, they could both be against the law. But then again, Lance couldn't give Guist what he really wanted either since he couldn't speak for Angelique. Maybe they were both coming to this table with no cards at all.

"Yeah," Guist brought him back to the conversation. "Is she?"

"As far as I know the tiger is a solitary creature," Lance said, surprising himself by being playful in his answer. Guist stared at him, puzzling him out, probably trying to figure if Lance were making fun of him. "Yes, she's single. Never married," Lance amended. "The emergency room keeps her busy, you know."

"I bet. You got her number?" Guist asked, his voice strong but his posture humiliated. He'd probably never had to ask a teenaged boy for a woman's number before.

"You got a death wish?" Lance returned, wondering what Angelique would do if Guist were to ask her out. Would she laugh at him? Would she actually agree? He couldn't really imagine them together. Their separate intensities would surely burn each other out, right?

"You'd know all about that, wouldn't you, boy?" Guist shot back, voice not quite as smooth and calm as before, enough of a stab in it that Lance could feel the wound. He took a step backward, remembering what Guist had told him in the hospital a couple days ago. How he should go home, get away from Keith if he knew what was good for him. How Keith would bring him nothing but trouble. How he'd been right, but probably not the way he thought he would be. A soft shine of regret instantly went over Guist's blue eyes, and he took another drink of his soda to bring their interaction back to neutral.

"Look, kid," Officer Guist began, obviously intending to try and repair what he'd just done to their dynamic. "No, sorry, it's Lance, isn't it? I got to admit, you don't look much like a kid today." Lance gave in to Guist's attempt at repentance by meeting his gaze, waiting to hear what he had to say. "That was out of line; you're right. It's not like I know him, not anything more than what's been shared at this trial."

"You know he's innocent, right?" Lance demanded. "If you were there for all of it, then you have to know that."

"Innocent isn't the word I'd use," Guist said softly, reluctantly, as though he knew that by sharing his real thoughts on the matter with Lance, he'd be removing any shot he had of getting Dr. Delacroix's number from him, but he felt he needed to share all his information with Lance anyway. "He made some bad choices. Nothing I'd throw him in jail for, but still – there's a lot of anger in him."

"There's a lot of kindness in him too," Lance returned, though he couldn't look at Guist anymore when he said it. "It'd probably be easier to notice if anyone could ever believe that it was there."

"I do believe it," Guist allowed. "And I did notice, now that you've brought it out of him into the open for everyone to see."

"What are you talking about?" Lance asked, tired, staring at the open can of soda in his hands, wishing he could pull his sleeves down to protect his fingers from the cold of it. "It was always there; I had nothing to do with it."

"I was just with him," Guist shared, and now he had all of Lance's attention.

"How is he?" Lance interrupted to ask, remembering that he'd wanted to ask that a long time ago, before they'd started talking about Dr. Delacroix. Guist smiled softly at him, shaking his head.

"He looks awful; he's in a lot of pain, you can tell in a second. But all he wanted was to know about you. If you were ok. Where you were; if you were still here, could I please let you know that he was all right and not to worry about him. Before, in the courtroom, or the times when I'd be escorting him in and out, he never said a word, wouldn't look at anyone. He'd just sit there with his arms folded, glaring at the world and barely answering the questions that were asked him. When he did say anything, it was quick and hard. And he never asked for anything, not once before today. And yeah, I think that has everything to do with you. That's why I came to get you."

"What?" Lance checked, not allowing himself to hope too hard.

"I say, he looks awful. And my first aid training doesn't hold a candle to yours, for sure. I know the lawyers are fighting back and forth about you, all talk and nonsense, and they're never going to get anywhere with Judge Kolivan with it. He can't give in to either of their requests to keep you in or out without some sort of time-wasting backlash, so I'm going to make the call instead. Because in my completely unbiased opinion, he needs medical assistance, which means he needs you, and he needs you with him instead of across the building. So get your supplies and come with me."

"Why . . . why are you doing this for me?" Lance had to ask, taken completely by surprise. He'd thought maybe Krolia would ask for him, but Officer Guist?

"You know," Guist said, closing his eyes and turning his head away. "Despite your first impression, I'm not actually a jerk. I have a son of my own – a little older than you two. He lives in New York now, but I remember what it's like."

"I'm . . . really sorry," Lance apologized for the harsh and hurtful things he'd ever thought about Officer Guist, feeling the need to do that even though he'd never said any of them out loud to him.

"Me too," Guist returned. "So are you coming, or what?"

"Y-yes, of course," Lance began rushing, but then thought of something and took out his notebook first, setting the untasted ginger ale on the floor so his hands would be free. "I don't have Dr. Delacroix's number," he confessed. "But I do have her email address if you want it."

"I'll take what I can get," Guist said, smiling at Lance, who wrote down the address as quickly and neatly as possible, tearing out the entire sheet and beginning to hand it over. Though he stopped with his arm half extended, which made the officer also pause questioningly in the act of accepting it.

"This wouldn't be considered some kind of bribe, would it?" Lance asked, not wanting to get anyone in trouble for what was going on here. Guist burst out laughing, reaching forward to snatch the paper out of Lance's fingers.

"No, considering I was going to do this anyway," he answered when he could talk again. He started walking and Lance fell into step beside him, both of their boots sounding hard and heavy in the empty hallway. "Though if you wanted to chat me up with the doctor, I wouldn't say no to that."

"What should I tell her?" Lance asked, pretty much ready to agree to anything Officer Guist wanted now that he'd made it possible for Lance to stay with Keith.

"That I'm kind, hard-working, and dedicated," Guist offered, thoughtful and yet still smiling as if he were joking with Lance. "I don't know, kid - Lance - you don't have to tell her anything. If I can't get a woman on my own then I don't deserve her."

Lance was starting to be of the opinion that if anyone might deserve Dr. Delacroix, it could very well be Frederick Guist.

"She has Fridays off most of the time," Lance gave him, now actively trying to be helpful, though he hoped Angelique wouldn't kill him for doing this. "Except she usually spends her days off at least partly in her office. You could bring her coffee and tell her to come take a break with you. Take her on a walk; it's a psychologically-proven fact that people get along better when they are physically moving forward side by side." Like they were doing right now.

"No joke," Guist accepted, then paused, forcing Lance to stop and consider him. "Now some instructions for you." Lance prepared to pay strict attention; Guist's sudden change in presence told him that this would be important. "Don't speak to anyone except me, Keith, and Ms. Krolia. If anyone else says anything to you the only phrase that you are allowed to say, to repeat as many times as necessary is 'I have clearance.' Do you understand?"

Yea – yes, sir," Lance acknowledged solemnly, thrown a little off guard by the abrupt change in his mannerism.

"Ok. Then when we go into the courtroom, you do not speak at all unless the judge or I address you directly. Do not move from the place I tell you to sit unless I also tell you to move. Draw no attention to yourself if you can help it. Got all that?"

"I got it," Lance answered promptly, not wanting to ruin anything now that he'd gotten this far. Guist nodded and knocked on the door that Lance suddenly noticed they were standing in front of. The doors of this floor were all one kind of gray or another, but this one blended particularly well into the wall, even the handle camouflaged by being such a slim, tight-fitting rod that almost disappeared into the trim. A different kind of waiting room – protective custody.

"Are we ready?" Krolia's tight, quick question came as she opened the door from the inside.

"Almost," Guist answered, putting a hand on Lance's back to push him gently forward. Lance forced himself not to wince. "Your client looks like he could use a medic."

Krolia opened her mouth, her face absolutely impossible to read, and she didn't move backward to allow Lance in, which meant that Guist was pushing Lance almost into her. He was now so close to her that he could see that she wore multiple pairs of earrings. Dangling moons to match her necklace, a tiny wolf's head, crystal stars, blood-red studs, a miniature dagger, and a thin ring around the very top of her ear. He could also see the place where she had removed her eyebrow ring for court. Or maybe that was just a scar. She smelled so good.

"Officer," Krolia began, completely unphased by how close Lance was standing next to her now, unrelenting, but Lance interrupted.

"I have clearance," he said with conviction, then tried to see past her into the room, tried to see where Keith was behind her.

"There you have it," Guist almost snickered, giving Lance one final push that forced Krolia to step aside.

"It's on you then," Krolia told him.

"Better that way," Guist replied, nonplussed.

"Thank you," Krolia finally said, and Lance turned around from trying to find Keith to echo her.

"Yes, thanks so much. For all of it. Really."

"See you later, Lance," was all Guist gave them before taking his leave, his boots again sounding heavy and official as he walked away from them.

"Well," Krolia turned her attention to Lance after she'd closed the door. "Aren't you a lucky bastard? Guist doesn't stick his neck out like that for anyone." Lance didn't know what to say to her that wouldn't sound smug. It wasn't like he'd asked Guist to bring him here. He knew he was lucky, but after what Krolia had just said, now he truly understood how much.

"Krolia?" There was Keith. The room made a quick twist left just beyond the door, then it opened up to a narrow sort of room with another door on the far end of it. There was a small conference table with four chairs and one gray and blue plaid sofa. The kind that can be found in offices, not homes, not appearing to be all that comfortable, but at least it was better than nothing. Probably a lot better than any of the chairs in this place, especially the wheelchair, which had been folded up and tucked between the wall and the table. Keith looked as though he had been lying down on the couch, though he was sitting up now, looking worried that they'd been summoned.

"Lie down, Kit," Krolia instructed, looping a strong arm through Lance's and dragging him with her into the room. "We're still waiting, but the Deputy Sheriff brought your EMT."

"Hey, Lobito," Lance greeted him lightly, ignoring the half smile that Krolia gave him as he said it. He was starting to suspect that she spoke Spanish at least a little and made a mental note to himself not to say anything incriminating while she could hear him. Not that he knew what he could possibly say that would be incriminating, but it sort of unsettled him anyway.

"Lance?" Keith sounded so relieved, the tension leaving his body fully visible even from a few paces away. "How'd you get here?"

"I bribed Officer Guist," Lance said, shrugging as though he did underhanded deals like that every day. Krolia let him go, and he continued toward Keith, monitoring his condition with visual clues. He looked like he wanted a huge dose of morphine, a comfortable bed, and a week-long nap.

"With what?" Keith asked, confused and possibly even more worried. Lance grinned at him, though he hadn't expected to be believed so easily.

"A date with Dr. Delacroix," he answered, then watched Keith's mouth drop open so dramatically that it could be seen even under the mask. He heard the soft rustle of fabric behind him as Krolia folded herself onto one of the chairs at the table, watching them quietly. It unnerved him a little that she could hold so still.

"Holy _shit_," Keith exclaimed as the idea of that fully settled on him. "That'll be –" He cut off, sneezing abruptly into his elbow on reflex even though he was still wearing a mask. Then he tightened in pain, resting his arms against the cushion of the couch, leaning far over to the side. Lance knelt down next to him as he dropped his forehead into his hand on the seat, groaning a little.

"Kit?" Krolia asked, standing much faster than she'd sat down, coming around Lance to slip onto the couch between the armrest and Keith's bowed head. Lance had his hand on Keith's shoulder, knowing what had happened. The force of sneezing had slammed hard into Keith's head and back, intensifying the pain he was already in. Not an emergency, even though it sort of looked like one with Keith not being able to finish his sentence and crumpling over onto his side like that. Lance stared at Krolia, amazed at her concern. She glared back at him.

"Well?" She snapped, jerking her head toward Keith, and he heard the rest of what she wanted to say. You got yourself in here, so aren't you going to do anything?

"Keith," Lance focused his attention, using his Incident Commander in Charge voice mostly for Krolia's benefit. "Bless you, but I expressly forbid you from catching a cold on top of all this, you got it?" Even though he knew that happened all the time. Colds loved to take advantage of weakened immune systems like Keith's, and they frequently began at the tail end of other illnesses. Lance couldn't imagine how awful it would be if Keith had to go through that too.

"Ok," Keith agreed, his voice muffled by the mask, his hands, and the couch cushion.

"Your back's getting worse?" Lance asked, mostly for confirmation. "You probably have a headache by now too, right?"

"Yeah," Keith said, tensing but then relaxing when Krolia put a hand on his forehead.

"I have Excedrin," Krolia offered, which didn't surprise Lance. She seemed the sort of person who probably worked herself half to death through the night until dawn and then chewed the pills in the morning for breakfast. Though Lance could also sense the unease in her. She did not like seeing Keith this way; it was too far out of her element. And however against it she'd made herself seem, Lance could tell she was relieved he was here.

"He can have some," Lance allowed, taking out his notebook again to write down this newest set of drugs going into Keith while Krolia got up to find the medication in her briefcase. She was on her way back to the couch when there was another knock on the door, causing her to hurriedly hand over the individually wrapped dose to Lance. Keith pushed himself upright again, looking fearfully at the entrance.

"It's going to be ok," Lance assured him as he opened the package and got out his second bottle of water. "It's almost over."

"Lance?" Krolia unexpectedly called him, and he turned toward her from where he knelt on the floor by Keith. "Judge Kolivan wants to see you."

Lance shared a quick look with Keith, trying not to let any worry he felt sneak past his eyes. The judge? Wanted to see him? He smiled, putting the medicine and the water into Keith's hands so his would be free when he stood up.

"¿_Voy a regresar?_" He asked her, testing his theory about her language ability with a question he didn't necessarily want Keith to know the answer to. He wanted to lie to him and assure him that they would see each other again. That he would be coming back.

"_No sé_," she responded fluidly, answering multiple questions at once, even though she didn't actually know. "_Pero ahora tiene que ir_."

"Ok," Lance accepted, mostly because he really didn't have much choice about it. He leaned over Keith, who shifted his eyes quickly between Lance and Krolia, not liking how he'd been left out of their short conversation. Lance reached out to brush his hair away from his forehead, as intimate a touch as he dared right now. "Drink as much of that as you can, it'll help your back. I'll see you soon." And even though he had only just arrived, Lance shouldered his bag and once again stepped past Krolia toward the hallway.

He was surprised to see Guist waiting for him, but then realized that it made more sense for Guist to be the one escorting people through the building instead of the actual judge. Guist took his arm this time, not a rough grip, but definitely a firm one, the kind of hold that he used to bring defendants into and out of courtrooms, a double protection against them trying to run and for tripping if their hands happened to be handcuffed. Walking this way was probably instinctual to him in this place. Guist started talking before Lance could ask anything.

"The judge just finished, and Keith's case is next. I've told him a little about what's been going on, but I want you to explain the medical situation in detail as well as give an account as to where Keith's been since Thursday. Don't be afraid, but do be respectful."

Lance swallowed, not sure he could help being afraid. The gray walls seemed more like concrete to him now as he walked. The lights were dimmer, at least in his imagination. He thought back to Keith, sitting in pain on the couch with Krolia, and thought about all the time he had spent in this building the past two weeks. He thought about what a pest he had been with all the texts to meet he'd sent to Keith while he'd been dealing with this situation. Unrelenting stress and uncertainty. No wonder he'd gotten sick.

It was a good thing that Guist kept hold of Lance's arm. He was so overwhelmed by what was going on and what was about to happen that it was difficult to pay attention to something like watching where he was going. Not that he knew where they were going, but it seemed they'd walked the entire length of the building before Guist tugged him to a stop in front of an office door. Judge R. J. Kolivan was embossed on a placard inserted into a slide on the wall. Lance wanted to pause here, catch his breath even though he wasn't out of breath, but he definitely wanted to collect himself somehow. Guist needed no recuperative moment and simply knocked with familiarity, beginning to open the door before the deep call came for them to enter, dragging Lance in behind him.

For a moment, Lance was stunned. Everything in this office seemed enormous. The desk, the two oversized armchairs in front of it, the massive high-backed burgundy seat behind it. Monstrous paintings of wildlife were displayed on two of the walls – moose in the snow, a couple of bears fishing for salmon in a river. Twin gargoyle-sized bookcases stood guard in the back corners, bearing the weight of hundreds of thick, hard-bound books. Two large filing cabinets sat beneath the paintings, and the air of the place felt solemn and ancient.

"Judge Kolivan," Officer Guist broke the pressed quiet. "This is Lance McClain, the EMT escorting Mr. Kogane."

"Thank you, Officer. Please stay with us," said the judge in the deepest voice Lance had ever heard. He decided to channel Shiro and stood in his best imitation of parade rest, trying not to stare too hard at the man behind the desk, a file open in front of him and a pen at the ready for notes. Like the rest of the office, the judge himself was an enormous man. Big enough that he didn't really look like a judge. He looked more like an Olympic wrestler. His shoulders were so massive that Lance doubted he could sit back comfortably in his chair. He had a broad nose which fit well against his broad, squarish face, and skin darker than Reggie's. The only thing light about the judge was his graying hair.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. McClain. I have some questions for you, if you're willing?"

Lance swallowed again, trying to coat his dry throat as he stood in the judge's deep brown gaze. His eyes were not fierce like Krolia's or soft like Shiro's. They were somewhere between – completely impartial. Lance found that all he could do was nod.

Judge Kolivan offered them seats in the large chairs and began asking his questions. How long had Lance been an EMT? How long and in what capacity did he know Keith? What exactly happened after Keith had left the courthouse on Thursday evening? What medical limitations was Keith struggling with currently and what were the risks involved in keeping him from resting at home? Was there anything else that Lance thought the judge needed to know?

Lance gave the most thorough answers possible without babbling. He told the judge that he hadn't known Keith when he tracked him down on Friday morning after class, but now that he'd spent practically every moment since then with him, they had become good friends. He almost spoke about the document he had written with Dr. Delacroix but decided at the last second that he'd better not. He also did not ask to be allowed into the courtroom; Officer Guist did it for him.

Guist confirmed what he could about Lance's story. How he had witnessed Keith collapse himself on Saturday afternoon. Had seen Lance take him away to the hospital in an ambulance and spoken with the ER doctor there regarding the severity of his condition. He closed with his opinion that Lance be allowed admittance to the courtroom despite the Hunts' insistence that it be closed.

"I see," Judge Kolivan toned thoughtfully over the fingers he'd pressed together at his chin. "Very well. Officer Guist if you could please have Mr. McClain assist you in escorting the defendant into the courtroom and then finding him a seat where he can monitor? We will keep the proceedings as brief as possible."

"Y-your honor?" Lance practically squeaked, so grateful that this had been granted to him that he was surprised he was taking a chance in asking this question.

"Yes, Mr. McClain, what is it?" The judge asked quietly, though he was now looking down at the file.

"If Keith is . . . if the jury says he's guilty, what happens to him?"

"Ah," Judge Kolivan breathed, and raised his head again to look at Lance, not unkindly. "He won't be thrown immediately into a cell, if that's what's worrying you. There is a medical wing at the prison where he will receive any and all necessary treatments. He won't be transferred into the facility until he's fully recovered."

"Oh," Lance exhaled, though this answer didn't really make him feel any better. He actually thought it was odd that the prison would be prepared to offer Keith more treatment than the hospital. It seemed a little backward. Still, no matter what, Lance didn't want Keith to go there.

Officer Guist was standing now, reaching down to also pull Lance to his feet. Because it seemed that now was really time to get started. The waiting over. The uncertainty nearly at its end. All the movement back and forth to this room and that room and who goes where all sifting down to this one last walk to pick Keith up and take him into the courtroom.

"Thank you, Officer," Judge Kolivan said one last time. "I'll meet you there in fifteen minutes."

**Author's Note: Yes, I wanted Krolia's first name to be Tamsyn – I don't know; it works for me. And no, I don't actually know how things go inside of court buildings. I'm doing a lot of guessing here – and retelling a few things that I've heard from people I know who have had to be there for some reason or another (not manslaughter, thankfully). Thanks for hanging in there this long – there's no way to drag it out any more. Though that wasn't what I was doing. Verdict's up next. Fifteen minutes. Or you know, whenever I can find some writing minutes now that I'm working from home and homeschooling my three kids.**

**Still love you though! And this story. Thanks so much. **


	24. Verdict

**Author's Note: Still here and doing well, my dears. There's so much going on and I'm not a very good school teacher, but we are still healthy and happy. And I'm still writing. At one in the morning, but I'll take what I can get.**

**Please note: THIS IS NOT THE LAST CHAPTER. I know it feels like it is – but it's not. Stay with me a while, ok?**

**Also, I have no idea how courts work, so just go with what I've got ok? **

**I'd love to hear from you. I know I'm not the only one feeling disconnected from the world right now.**

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Verdict**

Lance followed Officer Guist back to where Keith and Krolia waited, noticing his senses dulling one by one until all he could see was a fuzzy black movement ahead of him that was Guist's boots and all he could hear was a pulsing hum. His emotions had tightened so hard that it seemed they'd given way like a stripped screw, and he could no longer feel himself moving forward. 

He thought Officer Guist said something to him as they walked, maybe asked a few questions, but he hadn't answered with more than an ambiguous grunt, and now if Guist were still talking, Lance couldn't hear it. Nor did he notice when they arrived at the partially hidden door. He only stopped because Guist suddenly gripped his arms and squeezed hard.

"Get it together," Guist told him, shaking him slightly. "We need the other Lance; the one barking orders at me and taking charge and being _sure_. You figure out where he is in that head of yours and get him out here."

"You're right," Lance acknowledged, wishing the Lance Guist was talking about was the only one available ever. Guist knocked his fist against Lance's chest, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to jostle him a little.

"That boy needs you," Guist said, though Lance struggled accepting that. Keith needed a lot of things, mostly Shiro. He'd done way more for Keith than Lance had. Need was a rather strong word. "Now go bring him out to me."

"Can you give us a few minutes?" Lance requested, not knowing exactly what he would do in those last moments, just knowing that he wanted to have them.

"Five," Guist allowed. Not near enough, though Lance knew that Guist was being generous. He reached up and removed Guist's fist from his chest with both hands, releasing him just as Krolia opened the door, her face hard and ready.

"Judge Kolivan has asked us to escort Mr. Kogane into the courtroom," Guist said smoothly as Krolia studied Lance carefully.

"No kidding," she said, the growl tamed but still present, staring Lance down. He discovered that it was easier to look her in the eye, now that he had formal permission from the judge to be here. Now that it wasn't up to her to speak for him. "Congratulations."

"How's Keith?" Lance cut in, not wanting to hear how lucky he was or any other lecture about how much of a liability he was going to be in the courtroom. All he wanted was to keep watch over Keith. He wasn't going to do anything crazy, and he didn't need a lawyer who hadn't vouched for him at all to give him any advice about it.

"Pretending to sleep," Krolia said, looking over her shoulder toward the couch that Lance could not see from his angle at the door. "The poor kid – dragged through this circus."

Officer Guist cleared his throat, a physical testament that time was moving on while they were standing here in the doorway. Krolia glared, her eyes weapons all by themselves, renewing Lance's respect for her slightly.

"Knock it off," she almost spat at Guist. "This whole thing is nothing but profiling and you know it."

"It's not up to me," Guist absolved himself. "I'll escort the Hunts in first to give you guys some time." He nodded to Lance, tapping his own chest with his fist as a reminder that Lance needed to get it together and keep it together. He had to remember what he came for. Lance nodded back in acknowledgement, then turned to go in, finding Krolia still guarding the doorway, watching Guist leave.

"Krolia?" Lance nudged her with her name. Krolia set her shoulders, shaking her head and closing her eyes, making an obvious mental pivot.

"Never mind," she said to herself. The cold smile was back on her face, as if she had a secret she wasn't sharing, the same sort of smile that villains have in movies as they watch a victim drink from a poisoned glass. "It'll all be different after today. Go on in, _Acere_; I'll wait for you here."

She shifted slightly to let Lance pass, and he shot through the doorway, knowing that five minutes would blur past too quickly. He saw Keith half lying down on the couch, in a similar position to when he would rest his head on Lance's lap in the back seat of cars. His bottle of water was on the floor beside him, nearly empty. So he'd followed Lance's instructions after all. Though Krolia was right; he was not actually sleeping. Lance could see that from across the room. He'd spent so much time this weekend monitoring Keith as he slept.

"Keith," Lance called to him. "You can open your eyes; it's just me."

"Lance?" Keith's voice wrapped his name in several layers of disbelief. Apparently, Keith hadn't expected him to come back.

"Surprise," Lance said, smiling even though he didn't feel like it. Forcing himself to be the version of himself that Guist had asked for. Support and strength and sureness. "The judge said I could stay with you. Courtroom and all."

"Oh," Keith returned, unenthusiastic. Almost disappointed. He was sitting up now, at least partially. He had his head bowed, his back curved over as though he were incapable of straightening it, looking as alone as he had when Lance first joined him in his room. "I don't . . . if they send me. . . I don't want you to –"

Lance sat down next to Keith on the couch, their shoulders touching, wondering what sort of emotional mess was forcing Keith into all these partial sentences.

"Keith, what?" Lance checked, unsettled by what Keith seemed to be saying. Lance had worked so hard to be here, he'd jumped so many hoops to be allowed in that room, and now Keith didn't want him there? Why not?

"It's just," Keith said, speaking extremely slowly, staring hard at the table, at the carpet, at anything that wasn't Lance. "If they take me away . . ."

"They won't," Lance countered with so much force that Keith actually flinched.

"I don't want that to be the last thing you see," he finished after a pause. "How you remember me."

Lance slipped off the couch and onto his knees next to Keith, dipping his head so he could force Keith to make eye contact with him. Keith kept his gaze for less than two seconds, though.

"If that's what you really want," Lance managed, though it was far from what he wanted. "I'll wait outside, but Keith, it's not going to happen like that. Today is not the last time I'm going to see you, but even if it was, that's not how I'd remember you at all." Lance was about to describe his favorite memories of Keith and their strange weekend together, but his voice deserted him. He'd remember Keith on the couch in his apartment, amazed at the taste of his soup. He'd remember the ice pack on his cheek, the way Keith had comforted him about his family. He'd remember the feel of his head on his lap, running his fingers through his hair. There were so many, in fact, that Lance knew that none of them would be the last, and none of them would be forgotten either.

"I'd like to come with you," Lance said when he trusted himself to talk. Keith had his face turned away, eyes closed. "I came here to support you, but that's hard to do behind a locked door."

"Are we ready to go, gentlemen?" Krolia joined them, slicing into the room, apologetic and rushing. There before Keith could even think about giving an answer.

"Almost," Lance answered without taking his eyes off Keith, amazed that the hardest permission to receive for entering the courtroom would come from him. He decided to stall just a few more seconds to let Keith decide where he wanted Lance to be. "Last stat check, all right?"

Keith nodded, head still hanging. The only things Lance decided to get a true number on were Keith's temperature and heart rate. He didn't think Krolia would let him take the time to drag out all his monitoring equipment, even if it could be for the last time. He did take the time to write the stats down. 102.3. Eighty-nine beats per minute. Hardly any change at all.

"How are you feeling, Keith?" Lance asked. "Not that there's any more drugs you could take that could help."

"Numb," Keith mumbled. Lance knew what he meant. He probably felt close to the same way Lance had as he walked away from the judge's office. Too many feelings splashed over each other until they'd all mixed into a muddy sort of indecipherable nothing. Or had all compressed and settled into his back like the virus was doing.

Lance could feel Krolia staring at him, again, sizing him up, figuring him out. Waiting for what he was going to do. He no longer felt any need to impress her.

"I get it," Lance said. "This place is weird like that. It makes you feel like there's no such thing as time," Lance explained the feeling for Keith, ignoring Krolia the way he wanted to ignore everything going on around them right now. "Like the air in this room is so heavy you can't move. But you wouldn't want to move anyway, because that will make everything start again. All the stuff you wanted to forget."

Lance's little speech did the trick of getting Keith to look at him again, a shine of mutual understanding in his colorless eyes. He felt Krolia moving behind him, pulling the wheelchair away from the wall in order to unfold it open for transport.

"I wish there was some way out of this," Lance continued. "Some way that you wouldn't have to leave this room, that you didn't need to come here to begin with. I wish I could do it for you, and I wish I'd met you sooner. I hate that they're making you do this, but I promise you that it will be better on the other side of it."

"You can't make promises like that," Keith muttered, his words muffled behind his mask.

"Too late," Lance challenged, and Krolia snickered.

"Krolia," Officer Guist called as let himself in. Not all the way, he hovered close to the door as though he weren't allowed to enter this room. Lance wondered if that were actually the legal truth, or if it was just because Krolia didn't allow it, or maybe he was overthinking everything. "Lance, I'm sorry, but we really have to go. Everyone has to be in their place before the judge. Come on now."

"Coming," Lance said before he could force himself to move. He took hold of Keith, who was struggling to get up, pulling him to his feet and holding him ready to pivot into the seat of the wheelchair. But Keith forced himself as straight as possible, holding tight to Lance's sleeves.

"Here, Kit," Krolia invited, bringing the chair closer.

"I don't want that," Keith denied, shaking his head. "I can walk."

Krolia tilted her head, unconvinced, making eye contact with Lance to check about allowing this. Lance nodded; he could keep Keith upright for however many hallway steps were between here and the courtroom. He wanted to give Keith whatever control was possible.

With Lance's agreement, Krolia moved the chair out of the way so Lance and Keith could walk side-by-side toward the door. She plucked up her briefcase off the table and smoothed a hand down her already perfect blazer. Then she fell into position behind them, following them out, switching the light off as she exited.

Lance walked Keith out to the waiting Guist, who also took up his place on Keith's other side, automatically encasing Keith's elbow in a Deputy Sheriff's escort grip. Keith stopped breathing when Officer Guist touched him, so Lance put more pressure into his arm. Don't do that, Keith. Keith turned to look at Lance, deliberately inhaling deeply in acknowledgement of what Lance had just done.

"Let's go," Guist gave the signal to start walking forward, but then remained completely silent even though he looked at Keith and Lance as though there was plenty he wanted to say. Lance thought he knew why he wasn't talking anymore. He had to stay impartial. He had to be the neutral party. Disallowed to give preference to either side, especially in the presence of a lawyer. Especially when he already had done Lance so many favors. This place was so weird.

Before, when Lance followed Guist away from the judge, everything had gone fuzzy. On this walk, it was the opposite. He could see and hear everything, in sharp, clear detail. The fleur-de-lis pattern on the buttons of Keith's suit, the flint-hard strike of Krolia's heels against the floor, the scars along Officer Guist's knuckles. The way the light touched the photos along the walls, the portraits, the trim. The unsteady rhythm of Keith's walking, the weight and heat of him on Lance's arm. Time may have started again when he had stood with Keith, but it wasn't up to normal speed yet. Lance wondered if it would catch up, or maybe it would surge forward faster than he wanted it to.

The courthouse was designed with the smaller waiting rooms and offices along the outer walls, building the perimeter for the central expanse of the courtrooms. Lance wasn't sure; he'd turned around so many corners in this place already, but he thought that the double doors ahead of them and to right faced the same direction as the main entrance four floors below. But there was no glass here. Here, the old dark wood had been preserved. No attempt at been made to modernize the feel of this place. The metal, where there was metal, was prison-cell gray. Lance could even smell the age of it – a mixture of damp, dust, and wood polish. It sucked in the light, dimming the entire corridor.

Two security guards stood on either side of the doors, but they opened them readily for Officer Guist. The one closest to Lance looked at him for maybe a hint too long, but no one said a word. At least, not outside the courtroom.

It all changed on the other side of the doors, enough that Lance was temporarily overwhelmed. They were inside the courtroom now, actually here. Lance tightened his grip on Keith, feeling him beginning to sag not just from the exertion of getting here but from the sudden weight of judgment that had been thrown over him from the front of the room.

Lance could see them long before he could hear the low murmurings. The Hunts stood from their table at the front, watching Keith as Lance and Guist brought him down the center aisle. William Hunt was much taller than Lance had expected him to be. Tall and trim, clean-shaven and crisp, brown-ish red hair styled professionally to complement his age and the shape of his face. He leaned down, as graceful as water, to speak to Mr. Rozensweig. His presence was so commanding that Lance almost missed his wife, who stood so close to his side wearing so much black that she might have been his shadow. If it hadn't been for her shining golden hair, Lance would have never seen her.

On the other hand, now that he could see her face, he wished he hadn't noticed her. She stared at Keith with an intense sort of loathing, a betrayal, a very clear disgust that Keith was alive and allowed to walk on the earth when her son could not. She gripped her husband's arm much tighter than Lance held onto Keith, so hard that Lance marveled that Mr. Hunt could just stand there calmly and quickly whispering to his lawyer as though he felt nothing. Rozensweig had his hands out in patient supplication, also whispering. Lance figured the exchange had to do with how Keith looked, unable to walk on his own, wearing a mask, with an officer on one side and an EMT on the other.

"They hate me," Keith whispered as they came closer to the front, shrinking unconsciously closer to Lance, as far as possible from the Hunts.

Officer Guist gave Keith a tiny shake, warning him against talking anymore, especially now that they were at the little half-gate that separated the front of the courtroom from the benches where spectators and witnesses sat at the back. Lance didn't want to shake Keith; he wanted to help him stand straighter. Keith had done nothing wrong; he had nothing to be ashamed of. He also wanted to put his arm around Keith to shield him from the tangible feel of hatred that radiated from that side of the room. It took all he had not to glare at Mrs. Hunt.

Since Keith couldn't, Lance pulled his shoulders back, drawing himself to his full height. He lifted his chin, which was as defiant as he was going to get in here. He didn't even dare whisper any words of encouragement back to Keith. Guist had told him to keep his mouth shut. He didn't want to give anyone any reason to kick him out of here.

But there was one thing he needed clarification on. He remembered just as he helped Keith sit down at the defense table, before they had removed their hands from each other's sleeves. Krolia took her place at Keith's side, though she remained on her feet, placing her briefcase with a sure calm in front of her. Officer Guist had his hand on Lance's shoulder, intending on pulling him back, separating him from Keith. Before he could, Lance bent down close to look Keith in the eye.

"Do you want me to leave?" Lance whispered, not because he wanted to but because he wanted Keith to have a choice about something. Even if it meant he'd have to pace outside with the security guards of the door, he wanted Keith to be able to choose. Keith's eyes flickered to the Hunts before resting again on Lance. There was no fear in them – the Xanax was still taking care of that, but there was an unsettled worry, a conflict.

"Lance," Keith said, breaking eye contact, throwing his gaze to the floor at Lance's feet. He hadn't let go of Lance's sleeves.

"That's not an answer," Lance breathed. "Do you want me to leave?"

"Damn it, Lance," Keith burst out, though quietly. "No," he finally confessed, though he sounded as though he'd clenched his teeth around the word.

"Ok," Lance said, relieved. "I'll be in the back." He gave a final look to Krolia before submitting to Officer Guist. There was only so much he could see from a distance, looking at Keith's back. Krolia would be closest; she'd be the one to notice something first. It would be mostly up to her to call to Lance if it became necessary. Krolia tipped her head at Lance before he turned away, which Lance supposed meant that she understood that.

Officer Guist took Lance by the shoulder back to the half-gate, turning him as he pushed him through the opening to give him some last-minute advice.

"Stay back there unless you're called forward," Guist reminded him. "You stay still and keep quiet. Go sit next to Takashi now."

Takashi. Takashi? The gate closed between Lance and Keith, and for the first time Lance looked at the back of the room instead of the front, searching for Shiro. He was surprised to see him seated close to the center aisle, the very back set of benches, the closest to the big double doors. He'd been so focused on the Hunts and Keith's walking that Lance hadn't even seen Shiro. Now he made a beeline for him.

Shiro sat stiff and rigid in the pew-like seat, his back barely touching the rest. His hands were positioned carefully on his knees. Looking at him from a distance would give the indication that he was at ease, calmly and peacefully waiting. But when Lance got close enough to actually sit down next to him, he could tell it was all a façade. Shiro's stillness was the same in intensity as Lance's stress-pacing. Where Lance felt the need to move, Shiro drove all his nerves into carefully sitting motionless, the only indication of his inner turmoil visible in the clench of his jaw and the absolutely unnatural stillness of his posture. His eyes moved, though. They shifted continuously from Keith to the Hunts and back again. Lance wondered if Shiro had to keep so rigid in order to prevent himself from flying over that gate and punching Mr. Hunt in the face.

Shiro also looked at Lance as he sat down beside him, carefully and slowly turning his head toward him. He kept his mouth tightly closed, but he asked Lance a question as loudly as if he'd spoken it. Lance gave him a quick thumbs-up in answer. Yes, he was allowed to be here. Yes, Keith was sort of ok. He'd be a lot better once this was over.

Keith sat hunched at the table, a broken crumple next to Krolia's strong posture. The Hunts and their lawyer continued to whisper amongst themselves while Officer Guist went to his post near what Lance supposed was the judge's entrance. This was also the first time Lance saw the jury box, filled with people. Lance nervously tapped his fingers along his leg as he looked at the mix of men and women who would be responsible for what happened to Keith today.

They looked so ordinary. All of them. A plump older black woman wearing a dark green sweater and a long swath of cream-colored fabric, looped several times around her neck and cascading down her shoulders. A college-aged young man who wore ebony plugs in both earlobes and had a tattoo just barely peeking out of his shirt. Another man with white hair wearing a vest and spectacles. A petite lady in a black and white striped dress and jean jacket who didn't look old enough to even be here absently playing with a thick brown braid pulled over her shoulder. Who were these people? Why would they care one way or another about Keith? How could Lance trust them to have made the right choice? His fingers sped up so much that Shiro reached over to still them. Lance guiltily tucked his hands tight under his arms. 

He was grateful when Officer Guist finally announced the arrival of the judge. First because it broke open the anticipation of waiting, and second because Guist commanded everyone in the room to get to their feet to show respect for the judge's position of authority. Lance sprang up, trying to scan everything at once. He looked to Keith first, who used the table and never took his hands off it in order to stand. He didn't lift his head. Krolia stood as straight as a flag pole, but only until she realized that Keith wasn't standing at his normal height, then she leaned over him to make sure he was all right. Good. She was paying attention.

The Hunts, well, Lance couldn't be certain since he was so far away, but he thought he saw Mr. Hunt roll his eyes as he watched Keith. Like he thought Keith was putting on an act, like he was trying to gain some sympathy by pretending to be weak. Shiro put a hand on Lance's arm again, which made him shift his attention to Officer Guist, who was opening a side door.

Judge Kolivan marched into the room like a threatening thundercloud, all billowing robes and broad shoulders. He looked purposeful, but not in a hurry, moving quickly without rushing, a man not willing to waste time but who was willing to take as much time as necessary. His face was perfectly blank as he placed himself with monumental solemnity at the front of the courtroom. The gesture stilled the already silent air. He bid them all to be seated. Lance found himself impressed, wishing it had been only the judge's decision about what should be done with Keith.

The judge announced the title and number of the court case, thanked the members of the jury for their service to the county and for appearing today despite adverse weather. Lance noticed that he looked at each of the members, one at a time, personalizing his gratitude.

"I have been informed," Judge Kolivan said, gazing quickly at Rozensweig before returning his attention to the jury. "That the defendant was released from the hospital yesterday and remains under medical care. For this reason, I will be giving my decision on the civil case attached to this verdict directly afterward instead of the previously scheduled separate hearing later this afternoon. I ask for the jury's understanding in this matter and promise to be as brief as possible."

Lance leaned in to Shiro questioningly but remembered at the last second that he couldn't even whisper anything to him. There were so few people in this room, anything he did would be noticed. But what was the judge talking about? What civil case? And this afternoon? They were thinking of doing two cases today? What was the other one for? He didn't have long to speculate; Judge Kolivan was being true to his promise on brevity and had already moved on.

"Are there any concluding statements from either party before we proceed?" Kolivan inquired, turning toward each council table, giving only a few moments for a response. Rozensweig looked like he wanted to protest something, but didn't say anything. Krolia also had nothing else to add.

"Seeing as there are no closing statements, I believe the jury has reached a verdict?" Kolivan continued, the cadence of routine in his voice, but surprisingly no boredom. Though he'd probably said these words hundreds of thousands of times, knew the protocol and the order for these sessions as well as signing his own name, Lance could tell that he was mentally present here. That these ceremonial proceedings had his complete attention. Lance admired his discipline.

All eyes in the room centered on the young woman in the jean jacket as she stood up, no taller than Pidge, a sealed envelope in her hand. Officer Guist acted as mediator, retrieving the small packet from her and crossing the floor to hand it to the judge. That was it. The verdict. In that envelope. Lance swallowed hard. What had they said? What did they decide? He forced himself not to squeeze the bench seat in front of him. Time was doing weird things again. Not stopping; it couldn't be stopping because there was still movement. The shuffling of the jury members who probably just wanted to be done with their duty, who wanted to go home or to other jobs. Judge Kolivan carefully opening the verdict envelope. Time hadn't stopped, but this process was driving Lance crazy with how serious everyone was taking everything.

"If possible, will the defense please rise?" Judge Kolivan addressed Keith, the jury's response to the trial now open in front of him.

Keith once again pushed against the table to be able to get up, and Lance couldn't stop looking at him, marveling at his attempt to stand with the sheer weight of the situation and his condition bearing down on him. He had to keep his hands planted as before, but this time he did his best to raise his head, attempting to make eye contact with the judge. Krolia stood at his side, completely serene, one of her hands resting lightly on Keith's back. For an instant, Judge Kolivan allowed something that looked like approval cross the neutral expression of his face.

"Mr. Keith Kogane, for all of the charges of voluntary and involuntary manslaughter that have been brought against you for the death of David Hunt, the members of the jury of Cook County have unanimously declared you not guilty."

Lance felt as though all the wind had been knocked out of him. He didn't mean to, but he heard himself exhale an enormous breath of relief. No one heard him; however, because his reaction was practically invisible compared to Keith's.

Perhaps he meant to sit down and missed, or maybe his knees just buckled on him. Lance couldn't tell from where he sat, but he did hear Keith give the strangest sounding cry, like a gasp, a moan, and a sob all tangled up together, like something broken and ugly had just torn free from his soul, and then he just dropped onto the floor.

"Keith," Shiro said, torn between following orders to stay where he was and rushing to the front. Lance felt no such restraint. He was already running for Keith, tearing down the center aisle. When Lance reached the bar, he barely noticed. He simply planted his hand on the wood and jumped, vaulting over it without bothering to mess with the latch of the gate. There were glimmers of movement in his side vision, and he could hear grunts and statements of surprise. But he didn't care about anything that might be going on around him in the room. Lance was here for one thing.

Krolia was bending over Keith by the time Lance reached them a few seconds after he'd gone down. She had her palms on Keith's back, her brow furrowed in worry and frustrated helplessness, looking at Keith, then the judge, then the Hunts, then at Keith again in a rapid rotation. Lance skidded to his knees in front of Keith, ignoring everything else. The last time Keith had received an emotional shock like this one, it had almost put him in cardiac arrest.

Keith was curled over, one hand covering his mouth while the other pushed tight over his heart. At least he was conscious; he hadn't passed out this time. Lance grabbed at Keith's clenched fingers, dragging his hand off his chest so he could put his own there, monitoring the heavy, rapid thud of Keith's heartbeat. Too strong for this to be a hypotension relapse.

"Keith," Lance called, shifting closer to him on the floor. The buzzing in the background was growing louder. Angrier? "What happened?"

Keith shook his head, removing the hand from the mask over his mouth so he could frustratingly drag his arm across his eyes. When he finally looked at Lance, they were still full of tears.

"When is this weepy emotional bullshit going to be over?" Keith asked Lance, his voice cracking in tense, embarrassed fury. Lance fought not to laugh, listening to the voices droning all around them, as though the very walls of the room were vibrating.

"Did you hurt yourself?" Lance asked instead of trying to answer Keith's question. It wasn't like Keith was the only one trying hard not to cry right now.

"No," Keith answered, annoyed with himself, frustrated that he'd become the epicenter of all the motion and muttering around them. Lance removed his hand from Keith's chest so he could squeeze his shoulder, relief pushing into his own heart and lungs so hard it almost hurt. Keith was ok, just weak. They'd said not guilty. Even though Lance had spent so long convincing himself and Keith that this was the only possible outcome of the trial, that anyone with sense would not send Keith to prison for what he'd done, he still could hardly believe it. Not guilty.

The sound of the gavel penetrated Lance's focus, bursting apart the beehive hum that Keith's collapse had started. Now that Lance was satisfied that Keith wasn't in any danger, the rest of the courtroom was becoming clear to him again. Though he stayed on the floor with Keith, Lance lifted his head to Judge Kolivan, who stood halfway out of his seat, powerfully hammering for order.

"That's enough," Judge Kolivan demanded. "Everyone please be seated."

Lance took a second to glance around, wondering how much real time had passed while he'd been talking with Keith on the floor. Probably less than it seemed. Shiro had come to the bar, leaning over it as far as he could right behind the defense table, hands curled hard around the railing. The Hunts and Mr. Rozensweig had taken several steps toward Keith as well, and more than one member of the jury had risen to their feet to better see what was going on. Officer Guist was crouched just behind Lance's shoulder, his radio in hand in case he once again had to call in an ambulance for Keith.

"Take your seats," Judge Kolivan said a second time. Lance felt he was excluded from this request, but second guessed that when the judge's attention fell on him. "Young man, is everything all right?"

Lance took an extra second to be sure in his answer. Keith's eyes were focused, his heartrate not any more extreme than it had been before. He thought that Keith had just been overcome with relief in that moment, that all the tension he'd carried in his body, all the unspoken worry and fear and stress, everything that he'd been dragging around with him since the start of this nightmare had snapped away from him all at once.

"Yes," Lance answered, then remembered that he was supposed to address the judge with an appellation. "Your Honor."

His response calmed the entire room. Judge Kolivan lowered into his seat once more, leaning back and squaring his wide shoulders, settling his body into place with the same care as he would organize his paperwork.

"Mr. Kogane," the judge addressed Keith, his deep voice peaceful again as he rested the gavel on the desk in front of him. "Do you feel well enough to continue or should we adjourn until this afternoon?"

"I'm fine," Keith panted, rather unconvincingly from the floor with Lance, Guist, and Krolia hovering over him. "We can keep going."

The judge nodded to him, another quick glimpse of impressed respect just barely visible in his expression.

"In that case, Officer Guist, could you please assist Mr. Kogane to his chair?" Judge Kolivan requested. But Keith was already moving on his own now, ungracefully pulling himself back into the wooden seat, looking as though he wanted to drop his head down on his arms and hide his face, still in shock and trembling. Lance stood protectively next to him, standing between Keith's table and the Hunt's.

"We're ready, Your Honor," Krolia prompted, her hand still on Keith's shoulder as he composed himself at the table.

"Very well," Judge Kolivan acknowledged. Lance wondered if he should go back with Shiro. Now that the emergency was over, he realized that he hadn't followed Guist's directions at all. Though he was finding it difficult to be ashamed of himself. Not guilty. They'd voted not guilty. Unanimously. Keith wasn't going to prison. "We will continue with the ruling on the civil suit. Perhaps you should remain seated this time, Mr. Kogane." The judge made eye contact with Lance. "And to be safe, please just stay where you are."

Lance nodded, standing straight next to Keith while Officer Guist stepped back, returning to his position near the jury box. Lance didn't dare glance at the Hunts. He wondered again what more legal business they could possibly have left now that the verdict had been read. Now that Keith was free. What else needed to be said? Why couldn't they just go home? Or where ever Keith wanted to go.

"Now," Judge Kolivan began, shaking off the last few minutes of uproar that had disturbed the process of his court, his voice calm and quiet and yet stretching to all corners of the room. "In regard to the civil suit of Kogane vs. Hunt. In accordance with the verdict and the agreement previously signed by both parties, I hereby rule in favor of Mr. Keith Kogane." Keith raised his head, looking confused. Lance was too. He risked stealing a look at Krolia, only to find her smiling smugly, eyes narrowed in self-congratulatory satisfaction.

"Mr. Kogane," the judge continued. "This ruling will clear your file of all charges associated with David Hunt, including the assault charges on your juvenile record." What? Cleared? Lance kept his hands to himself, held as still as possible despite how all his nerves were jarred. Krolia had arranged this; she'd prepared a suit against the Hunts in retaliation for dragging Keith into this a second time. This was turning out so much better than Lance had imagined. He'd wanted so much for Keith to be found innocent that this unexpected benefit was almost too much, yet it wasn't. It was exactly the sort of justice that Keith should have had the first time. Judge Kolivan turned his attention to the Hunts.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hunt," the judge addressed them, and Lance risked looking at them out of the corner of his eye. They sat with pinched expressions, almost glaring at Kolivan. "As you know, this ruling requires you to pay $650,000 in damages to Mr. Kogane within ten days, and you are prohibited from pressing any further charges against him regarding the death of your son. Failure to adhere to these terms will result in an additional fine of $100,000 and / or imprisonment of up to twelve months. Do you understand this ruling as I have explained it to you?"

"Understood, Your Honor," Mr. Rozensweig answered on behalf of the Hunts, who sat rigid and white, unprepared for having things turn out this way.

"Good. Then that will be all. Court adjourned." Judge Kolivan smacked down his gavel one final time to signal that they were done.

Lance blinked, amazed and shocked on many levels. That's it? All that waiting and it was already over? And what had he just said? Did he really just award Keith six hundred and fifty _thousand_ dollars? Over half a million dollars? Lance looked at Keith, who sat in stunned silence, just staring straight ahead at nothing. For someone who expected to go to prison today, Lance couldn't imagine what was going on in his head right now.

The room was beginning to clear out, the judge leading, disappearing out the same door he used to enter, on his way to the next meeting. Officer Guist began ushering the members of the jury out the same door, single file from the jury box. Lance made eye contact with the young woman in the striped dress, the one who had handed over the envelope. She smiled kindly at him, and Lance wished that he could run over there and shake her hand. Shake all their hands. Tell them thank you a million times for making the right choice, for giving Keith his life back. He knew he couldn't get close to them, though, so he simply mouthed his thanks from across the room. The woman's long braid swooshed away from her as she bowed slightly in acknowledgement. Then she disappeared behind Guist's guiding arm and out the door. Lance would never know anything about her.

A jostling closer to Lance demanded his focus. Mrs. Hunt had ripped free of her husband and her lawyer and was striding forcefully over to them, eyes shining and wild. It was the first time that Lance really noticed the grief in her, how much she was hurting over the loss of her son. It was the first time he'd ever considered that she was David's mother, that she'd been the one to find him, that she had loved him. Though the love she had for him looked like it burned bright enough to hurt someone. She looked like she wanted it to.

Lance took a step forward, placing an arm to block her from Keith, though he wasn't sure what she was really planning on doing. She might not know what she was coming over for either. Officer Guist was still across the room, closing the door after the last of the jury members, but Shiro was suddenly there. Lance hadn't seen him pass the gate, but he was here now, standing solidly between the Hunts and Keith, staring them down.

"I don't think you're allowed to come any closer," Shiro warned, the words very strangely threatening when spoken in his mild voice. The gentle tone contradicted quite strongly with his defensive stance.

"Don't you talk to me about what is and isn't allowed. It's not _right_," Mrs. Hunt hissed through clenched teeth, squaring off with Shiro when she realized there was no going past him. Mr. Hunt was right behind her, hands coming to rest on her shoulders, though he didn't look as though he was trying to pull her back. "What he did to David."

Lance glanced over his shoulder at Keith, who sat motionless, staring at the floor. He didn't even look like he had noticed what was going on yet, like he wasn't even listening. Like he was still processing the outcome of the trial and couldn't accept any new information. Krolia, on the other hand, was extremely tuned in to the situation.

"Phillip, you'd better take them out of here," Krolia suggested, coming to join the human barricade shielding Keith. "Unless you want this to get even more expensive." Her words drew Mrs. Hunt's attention and anger, though Krolia couldn't look any more disinterested at the small, fancy woman jerking her chin up at her. It was disgusting, and Lance knew it, but it rather looked to him like a chicken puffing up at a hawk. Too bad Krolia didn't have free rein in this room to do as she probably wanted to.

"What sort of comment is that? You're awful," Mrs. Hunt said insultingly to Krolia. "You know he should be locked up. _You_ are responsible for allowing a murderer to walk out of here. He killed my boy!"

"I don't take cases I don't believe in," Krolia snarled, her lips pulled back to show those unnaturally long canines again, her arms folded. "And the jury made the decision. Unanimously. Probably didn't take very long either. Keith didn't kill anyone, and honestly, I hope to God that his case becomes the precedent that allows more young men to step in and stop people like your son."

"How dare you?" Mr. Hunt challenged when Krolia's words flustered Mrs. Hunt speechless. Now he did pull his wife backward, tucking her neatly behind him. Shiro tightened the line, touching shoulders with Lance even though Lance had no idea what he was going to do if someone started forcing themselves past him. He didn't do confrontation; he was trained for different emergencies. He wasn't prepared for this; everything was supposed to be over.

"Phillip," Krolia addressed Mr. Rozensweig again, her tone sharp, leaning forward, infuriating the Hunts even more by pretending they were no longer there. The lawyer glared at her, and Lance almost felt sorry for him. If the Hunts were this mad and unable to do anything more to Keith, what would they do to their lawyer? How much of the blame was going to fall to him for this?

"Clear the room, everyone," Officer Guist ordered, finally noticing that something was going on and coming to the rescue. "Court's adjourned and we need the space for the next case." As he spoke, he spread his arms like a plow, herding the Hunts and their lawyer away from Keith. Except they didn't really move. Mr. Hunt stood resilient against Officer Guist, making it seem as though Fritz would actually have to physically escort him from the room.

"And what are you going to say the next time he brutalizes someone?" Mr. Hunt asked Krolia, though he stared down his nose at Officer Guist, much cooler and even than his wife. "When the death is immediate instead of delayed, hmm? Are you going to believe in him then? Is that what it's going to take? Boys like him just grow into worse men. David was worth fifty of him."

That was the last straw for Shiro, who lunged forward, surprising everyone. Officer Guist shouted at him to stop, but Shiro moved too quickly for anyone to prevent him from anything he wanted to do. He struck like a cobra, and Lance felt Keith grab on to his wrist from behind, just now seeming to catch up to what was going on. He was trying to get up, but Lance wouldn't allow it, blocking the area with his hip until Keith had no choice but to stay in his chair. The last thing Lance wanted was for Keith to get into another fistfight. If that's what was going to happen. Guist wouldn't let it happen, right? Not here in the courtroom.

But no, Shiro just barely stopped himself, his left hand clenching an inch from grabbing on to Mr. Hunt's suit. And his right. Shiro had pulled his classified, mesmerizing artificial right hand also into a fist and had drawn back to make the most of the momentum of the closed space. Mr. Hunt cowed immediately when it dawned on him that things had escalated to the point where words would not be the only weapons involved. Krolia had also raised her hands, though she looked as if she meant to grab Shiro.

"Get out," Shiro growled to the Hunts at the same time Officer Guist shoved his way forcefully between them.

"Let's go," Guist backed up Shiro, somehow pushing the Hunts toward the exit without actually touching anyone. They looked furious, but what could they do? This was probably the first time something hadn't gone the way they wanted it to. The first time they hadn't been able to change an outcome to suit their wishes.

Mr. Rozensweig paused to make final eye contact with Krolia, a nemesis acknowledging his defeat.

"Ten days, Phillip," Krolia reminded him about the fine and the deadline to pay it. "A cashier's check brought to my office will be fine. You know the drill." Drill? What did that mean? How often did Rozensweig have to bring cashier's checks to Krolia's office? Lance watched Phillip's nostrils flare as he forced himself to accept this without comment. He gave the tiniest nod and then followed the Hunts and Officer Guist out of the room. Lance let out a breath and sagged onto the defense table, head close to Keith's, inexplicably exhausted. He heard Shiro heave a sigh behind him. It had to be over now, right? Lance didn't think he could handle any more surprises in this building today. He glanced at Keith, who still looked rather stunned.

"Well," Krolia quipped, the least affected member of the party, inspecting her nails. "That's that. All right, Kit?"

At the sound of his nickname, Keith shook himself, blinking up first at Lance, who was closest to him, then at Krolia.

"What just happened?" He asked innocently, looking like he'd learned he wasn't in Kansas anymore. Krolia shrugged nonchalantly, used to winning her cases.

"You've been acquitted," Krolia told him warmly, on the verge of being self-congratulatory. "Or did you mean the part where your brother almost extended our torture with the Hunts by knocking William to the floor in a courtroom in front of half a dozen witnesses? Not that I wouldn't have loved to see it, but it would have cost us in the long run."

Lance smiled shakily at Shiro, who looked rather ashamed of himself. But Lance couldn't fault him on his momentary lack of discipline, especially when he'd pulled it together at the last second. Shiro had been through a lot the past couple of days, and he'd been defending Keith much longer than that. Lance was more surprised that he'd been able to stop himself than that he'd gone for the punch in the first place.

"I didn't touch him," Shiro said, quietly, as though he were giving himself the information, as though the desire to hit Mr. Hunt had been so strong it was messing with his memory of the event.

"Thank God," Krolia replied. "Though I can sympathize with the urge, I don't think even I could have gotten you out of that."

"Would have been worth it," Shiro muttered, casting a dark glare toward the courtroom doors. Krolia barely glanced; she was more focused on Keith.

"Can you stand up, Kit?" She was asking him, still looking worried, and Lance suddenly realized that every concerned look, every half-timid gesture, every hesitation that he'd seen in Krolia today had nothing to do with the case. She'd known that Keith would be let go. All of her worry was about Keith's health. Keith stared at her, not moving.

"Did he say six hundred and fifty thousand dollars?" Keith asked, processing everything slowly. "Did I hear him say that?"

"You did, and you're welcome," Krolia answered. "Now, really, can you stand up, or should I go hunt down that wheelchair?"

"Part of it is yours," Keith immediately offered, nodding at her.

"No," Krolia denied as Shiro walked around the defense table to take up position on Keith's other side. Lance hadn't moved, content to stand here and go through it all over again at Keith's pace. He wanted to be sure that everything happened the way he'd thought it did too. "I'm a public defendant, Kit. That means you pay me nothing."

"But you –" Keith challenged, looking confused. Like things were too good to be true.

"I do have some suggestions on what you can do with it, however," Krolia went on, steamrolling over whatever Keith had been trying to say. "I know a guy; he'd be happy to set it up for you. I'll put you in touch with him, ok?"

"Thank you," Keith said gratefully, thanking Krolia for more than her financial advice. She shook her head, looking toward the exit.

"You're a good kid," Krolia said dismissively. "Just . . . be careful on that vigilante stuff in the future, you get me?"

Keith nodded, eyes full of memory, and Lance wondered if he'd ever try to help anyone like that again. He hoped he'd never be put in the position where he'd have to decide about it.

Officer Guist returned, looking a little flustered.

"Kid," he said, exasperated, speaking to Keith. "You can go. In fact, I never want to see you in here again, understand?"

"Yes, sir," Keith toned, his voice very much separated from his thoughts.

"You got your life back, Kit," Krolia explained, looking at Lance playfully. "Make it a good one. Now go home and get some rest, will you? I'll call you once I get that check from Rozensweig. _Don't_ disappear."

Finally, Keith moved to get to his feet. Lance and Shiro both took arms on either side, but Keith spread his hands to prevent them. He held on to the table, making his way over in order to shake hands with Officer Guist. Then he shook hands with Krolia, who could hardly look at him. Only afterward would he allow Lance and Shiro to touch him.

Krolia started fussing with her briefcase, assembling her files, packing it carefully. Officer Guist followed them to the door, opening it for them, but then he too fell back, remaining in the courtroom. Keith looked over his shoulder when he heard the heavy doors thud closed behind him, then he looked sideways at Lance.

"Told you," Lance said, forced to say something like that so he wouldn't get choked up. Keith's eyes were still enormous, full of relief and the worry that he was dreaming. He walked between them, shaky, staring at the walls, the windows, the passing security guards. He looked as though he expected someone to stop him, to call him back, that he couldn't quite believe he was actually free to leave.

"Lance," Keith began, after they were outside, waiting for Shiro to bring the car. Lance had wanted to rest again on the bench where they'd first waited for Shiro this morning, but Keith had asked to go outside, to not stay in that building, to not give anyone a chance to second guess what the jury had decided about his innocence. So they stood at the curb in the wind even though it was late afternoon now, the sun on its way to bed, freezing.

"Yeah?" Lance asked, shoulders hunched against the cold, trying to keep still so he could support Keith. "You want to go back inside?" He suggested hopefully.

"No," Keith denied quickly. "I just wanted to tell you thanks for coming with me. For everything, really."

There was something final about what Keith had just said, and it made Lance worried.

"No problem," he dismissed. Then decided that he didn't want to wonder about what would happen next. He couldn't stand it. He wanted to know if Keith were leaving with Shiro, if he would ever see him again after today. "So where are you going now that you're free?"

Shiro pulled up then, and their half-started conversation paused as Lance helped settle Keith into the backseat, folding himself in beside him. Keith ripped off the mask almost before Lance had closed the door, leaning forward and resting his head on the back of Shiro's seat.

"Sorry, Keith," Shiro apologized from behind the wheel. "I hurried as fast as I could. How are you doing?"

"I don't know," Keith answered, like he was answering both Shiro's question and Lance's at the same time.

"Your back still hurt?" Lance asked an easier question. Even though the trial had taken much less time than he'd thought it would, it still felt like hours and hours since he'd last taken Keith's temperature.

"Yeah," Keith acknowledged, sounding drained. "Hey Shiro?"

"What is it, Keith?" Shiro asked, pulling away from the courthouse, heading back to the Stephenson Expressway.

"Were you really going to hit him?"

"It would have been a mistake if I had," Shiro responded coolly, controlled. "I went farther than I should have as it is."

"But were you?"

"I wanted to," Shiro confessed, in a voice that suggested he wished Keith hadn't asked him. "It wouldn't have solved anything, though. I would have ended up facing assault charges if I had. But I couldn't stand listening to him talk like that about you anymore. He was wrong, you know that, don't you?"

Keith didn't answer; he was fidgeting in the seat again, trying to get comfortable.

"So, Lance, I guess we're dropping you off?" Shiro said, changing the subject when Keith went silent. Lance watched Keith, drinking in the sight of him, feeling as though something were being torn away from him.

"That'd be great," he said, somehow keeping his voice calm. "But I thought Keith would be staying with me again tonight?" Lance met Shiro's gaze in the rearview mirror, and felt conflicted about what he saw there. He knew that Shiro wanted to take Keith home with him, start their new life. But they both remembered what Dr. Delacroix had said about staying close to the hospital. Keith's fever hadn't broken, meaning her stipulations remained in place even though the trial was over. Lance watched Shiro force patience onto himself, watched him nod to Lance. He'd waited this long, that nod seemed to say. He would wait as long as he needed to.

"I want to try one of those damn cookies," Keith whispered, though he pierced Lance with a look of intense gratitude.

"We've got plenty," Lance responded, smiling.

Keith stayed quiet all the drive back to Stony Island after that. No one really had much to say. Lance texted ahead to let Hunk and Pidge know that Keith was coming back with him. It was not quiet when they returned to the apartment. Hunk was blaring Queen's "We Are the Champions," and it seemed that every light had been turned up, making the apartment as bright as possible. They cheered for Keith and for Lance as they walked through the door, but things settled down a little once they saw how out of it Keith still was, how tired. Lance felt that way too. The emotional strain of the day was catching up to them all. Lance felt as though he hadn't slept properly for years, though it had only been a few days.

Lance stationed Keith on the couch again, Shiro taking his place beside him. He forced Keith to take yet another cup of Gatorade while Shiro absently held the tea Hunk had prepared. Keith tried to eat a cookie, but only managed a couple bites. Hunk kept the music playing while he and Pidge prepared a celebratory, though still spiceless dinner. Which Keith didn't seem to be able to eat.

Hunk and Pidge demanded a play-by-play of the day, what had happened, what had been said. They wanted all the details. Lance had some of them, but he faltered a little when it came to the part where he'd jumped over the bar to get to Keith. Shiro wouldn't let him leave it out.

"You should have seen him," Shiro reminisced, shaking his head. "He'd been so mad at Krolia for saying he'd be an unpredictable liability in the courtroom, and then he goes and just _vaults himself over the bar_. Like it wasn't even there."

"I had a job to do," Lance muttered, not wanting to go too far into it. He caught Keith looking at him strangely as Shiro retold that part and Pidge hooted that it sounded just like something Lance would do.

Shiro allowed the conversation to move on. Hunk told the story of the day from the apartment side, what they'd done while they waited, how hard it had been since Lance hadn't been able to text them any updates at all. They spoke a little bit of the future, but they noticed abruptly that Keith had fallen asleep somewhere in the middle of it.

"Lance?" Shiro once again called Lance over to the couch where he hovered worriedly over Keith. "Can you come check him?"

Lance obeyed readily, coming to kneel at Keith's side once again, noticing a difference in his color, in his breathing.

"He's soaking wet," Shiro observed, but Lance could see that for himself. Keith's black hair hung around his face in damp waves, his white suit shirt sticking to him. Lance smiled, relieved all over again because Keith had been released.

"It's a good sign," Lance said. "His fever's broken."

"Lance?" Keith murmured, not fully awake, but starting to squirm. "Why's it so hot in here?"

"Because you're getting better, Lobito," Lance told him. "Come on, let's get you out of that suit and into bed."

With Shiro's help, Lance guided a half-asleep Keith into his room, changing him from the suit to his last pair of clean pajamas. They tucked him under the quilt, but he just as quickly kicked it off, muttering about heat. Shiro promised to come and check on him the next morning, gripping hands with Lance before heading out.

Lance stayed next to Keith's side for a long while, enjoying the peace on his face. He looked as though he were sleeping comfortably for the first time since he'd been there, and for once he didn't talk in his sleep. He allowed Lance to set cool cloths on his forehead without protest now. Lance continued watching him long after Pidge said good-bye, long after Hunk had gone to bed. He just wanted to look at him, happy that he was still with him. He wasn't sure at what point he fell asleep himself. The only thing he did know was that he didn't see Keith awake again until Wednesday.

**Author's Note: More to come, please stay with me, guys. I've got SO MUCH LEFT FOR YOU. I'll try to hurry; I know it sucks waiting on me to get some writing time. **


	25. Irreconcilable Differences

**Author's Note: My apologies again for the long wait between chapters, everyone. Now that Keith is feeling better, we've entered a rather delicate place. Plus, I'm still being a schoolteacher and a full-time employee, and there are all these people and animals around that seem to be under the impression that I'm responsible for feeding them. Still, I made some time for you all. Because I want to keep moving forward with this story – there are so many scenes I want to get to. Let's get to some now, shall we?**

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Irreconcilable Differences**

Lance debated long and hard early Tuesday morning, standing in his scrubs near his bed, staring at Keith, his arms folded and his fingers drumming along his biceps. Should he risk it? Would it be ok? Probably?

There was such a difference in Keith's rest now. He still kept his hands curled against his chest, though he no longer appeared to be in pain. His breath came easily, deep and sound. For as long as Lance had watched him yesterday and again this morning, he hadn't moved or murmured in distress. No nightmares. No fear. Just a beautiful, dark-haired boy enjoying the pure sleep of a recovering patient – true rest. Which meant that Lance could very likely head out to his biology class and return before Keith ever woke up. Lance had almost picked up his backpack and left three times already, certain that this would be the case, but then that damning "what if" made him pause, look closer at Keith's face, and wonder if it truly would be safe to leave him. He'd been with Keith practically every second since bringing him home last Friday. It no longer felt natural to be a separate entity from him, and it felt especially wrong to leave him on purpose without even telling him where he was going.

And yet. Lance had a lot he was supposed to do today. The biology class was just the beginning. Directly afterward, he was due for a morning shift at the donation center. Then there were two more classes back to back in the afternoon, and finally, worst of all, Lance was on-call tonight with the ambulance. A twelve-hour shift that started at six and meant that Lance wouldn't be home longer than a few minutes at a time until dawn tomorrow. Lance guessed that the classes could be skipped, but it meant that Lance would be even further behind, would then have to carve even more time from an already tight schedule to dig himself out from under the work and instructions he would miss. He could tell the donation center that he needed another day off, but it felt wrong to leave them short-handed again, especially since he hadn't been all that truthful with them in the first place. But really it wouldn't help much to skip anything because there was absolutely no getting out of the ambulance run. Especially since Lance had asked to be scheduled today, specifically, in order to keep his Saturday free for Hunk's birthday. He'd known when he switched it that he would probably regret moving to a weeknight, but that was when he'd only been thinking about how he wouldn't be able to sleep in the morning after. Now that it meant leaving a recovering Keith alone for the entire duration of a night, it seemed a definite unfixable mistake.

In the end, when he really should have already been walking to class, Lance wrote a note for Keith in case he woke up before Lance got back. He told him where he was going, what time he thought he'd be home. He explained where he had left Keith's medication with instructions on what he was supposed to take, and when, and he underlined the sentence a couple of times to emphasize that Keith should take everything _with food_ and he was welcome to whatever he thought he could handle in the kitchen. Lance begged him to take it easy, please don't overdo it today. He reminded him that even though he probably felt better, he would still need a few rest days to get his strength back. Shiro was coming over later to keep him company. Hunk had promised to stay close to the apartment today. In case Keith had forgotten, Lance wrote his cell number again, asking for Keith to call him for anything. For anything! He wrote that he'd rather drop everything and come home early than have to pick Keith up in the ambulance later.

Writing that forced Lance to look at Keith one more time, wondering if that could be a possibility. What trouble could Keith get into with his fever finally broken? With his heart medication working and his iron supplement balancing out his anemia, what were the odds that he could relapse at this point? Small, Lance decided, if he didn't try anything too strenuous. Lance wrote it out one more time that Keith needed to _stay down_. Take frequent breaks. Take naps, for heaven's sake. Stay in the apartment, stay in bed if he could stand it. Just stay. Please.

Lance carefully placed the note on his mattress near Keith's head, then somehow tore himself away from his room without touching Keith. He'd be all right. Lance knew he would. The worst was over, the trial was over, and Keith would only improve from now on. But that wasn't all that was truly worrying Lance. In fact, knowing that Keith was getting better was actually troubling him more. Because it meant that there would be nothing keeping him at Lance's apartment. Nothing to keep them with each other anymore. If Lance weren't taking Keith's temperature, comforting him in the dark, he no longer had a reason to be near him, to touch him. Lance could probably stretch this out for another day, maybe as many as three, but then he knew that Keith would pack up his duffle bag, thank Lance for all he'd done, and disappear with Shiro. He might never see him again.

Or would he? Maybe they really were friends now? But that was something else bothering Lance. Could he just be friends with Keith? Could he sit with him in class, invite him to Hunk's birthday, and then just . . . be casual with him? Now that he'd held him, carried him through his darkness, now that he'd kissed the back of his neck. Could he continue with Keith and pretend none of that had happened? Lance battled with this all the way to biology, not sure exactly which scenario would be worse, then tried desperately not to think about either possibility so he could concentrate. He found it almost impossible and wondered if this was just how it was going to be now. If Keith had somehow broken his ability to think clearly, to focus on anything that was happening around him. Which, of course, distressed and distracted him even more. He had things to do; he had to be able to pay attention to them. Still, he focused more on what Keith might be doing at his apartment than the lecture, and then hurried to check his phone the moment the professor dismissed them.

Lance was halfway relieved and halfway disappointed when there were no messages from Keith after class. The good news was that Keith didn't need him. The bad news was exactly the same thing. He sent Keith an update text just in case, letting him know that he was on his way to work where he wasn't allowed to have his cell phone turned on. If Keith needed him, he could call the donation center directly and ask for him. As he walked through the winter-covered campus, Lance reprimanded himself about keeping his head in the game. Drifting off during a biology lecture was one thing. Not paying attention when hooking a donor to a centrifuge was completely different. He would have to put Keith out of his mind.

He was almost completely ready to do that by the time he got to the donation center. Or at least he'd rescheduled his brooding about it to a better time. But then he ran into some confusion that upset the whole concentration thing. He was barely out of his coat and clocked in when one of the newest techs, Brett, suddenly appeared next to him. They had Thursday night shifts together normally, and Lance had done most of his training with him, but it was out of place to see him on a Tuesday morning. It was also strange for Brett to come directly to him; Lance normally had to go find him when they were supposed to work closely together. He needed quite a bit of direction on what to do and when.

"What are you doing here?" Brett asked him, staring him up and down suspiciously, like it wasn't possible for Lance to physically be here, despite the obvious evidence standing directly in front of him.

"Um, working?" Lance replied, caught off guard. What kind of question was that? He could just as well ask Brett the same thing; this wasn't his usual shift time. Brett stood as tall as Lance, but bigger. Broader in the shoulders, in the waist, even his hands and voice were bigger. And no matter what, he always looked like he'd skipped shaving. "What are you doing here?"

"Steve called me in to cover for you," Brett answered, defensive, also looking confused and slightly offended. Like he thought someone was trying to waste his time. Lance thought there must have been a misunderstanding.

"Yesterday?" Lance clarified. He'd written Steve, their supervisor, on Sunday night and let him know that he'd be gone on Monday. He felt sure that he'd only asked for one day off; there'd been no need to call Brett in for today. Actually, Lance felt slightly annoyed that Brett had been called in to cover for him at all. They were nowhere near the same level. But then again Lance hadn't given Steve a whole lot of notice for his absence. He'd probably brought in the first person who said they could spare the time. It wouldn't matter to Steve that Lance didn't really approve of Brett; he just needed someone to cover the shift. And Lance knew he wasn't being fair in his assessment since Brett was still learning, but it made Lance tense to even watch him. He was just so . . . big, and he moved so fast, every gesture sudden and choppy. He made Lance nervous.

"Yeah, yesterday," Brett confirmed, still watching Lance in an interrogatory manner. "But he said you'd probably need today off too."

"Well, I don't," Lance heard himself say, then paused. What was he doing? If Steve already expected him not to be here, then shouldn't he just put his coat on again and leave? It'd be an easy thing; Brett was already here and expecting to work for him. Though he didn't feel all that comfortable leaving his patients in Brett's novice care. He'd barely stopped Brett from ramming a needle completely through a donor's vein the last time they'd trained together. He wondered how well he'd done yesterday on his own. Had it been the first time he'd been on his own? Or maybe someone else had monitored him.

"You sure about that?" Brett continued with the annoying questions, staring conspicuously at Lance's face. At the healing bruise that was making its way toward the grotesque yellow, green, and brown color, hanging on to purple still in the center. Lance didn't like the tone or the stare, even though he knew better.

He doesn't mean it as a challenge; Lance told himself firmly, forcing himself not to bury his face in his hanging coat. There is no need to rise to this; he's just asking a question. He's not a bad guy; he's not trying to rub you the wrong way. The Texas drawl in Brett's accent was making it seem like something more than what it was, and Lance knew that, but he found himself ruffled at it anyway. It doesn't matter, he repeated. Take this as the opportunity it is and just go home. That's three hours in the apartment that you weren't expecting to have today. Lance looked at his coat . . . for just a few seconds too long.

"Lance, good, you made it." Hello, Steve, what impressive timing you have. Lance sighed. "I wasn't sure you'd be ok working today."

"Apparently," Lance muttered, holding on to his coat sleeves, a little surprised at his own rotten mood. It was unusual for him not to want to be at work. Steve walked up, shorter than both of them by several inches, and yet he owned all the authority of the group. Steve wasn't a doctor, but he was a skilled phlebotomist, and he'd been running the campus donation center probably longer than Lance had been alive.

"I called Brett in just in case," Steve explained the Texan's presence. "But since you're both here, Lance, I'd like Brett to shadow you this shift if you're feeling up to that?"

Now Lance had to turn and look at his supervisor. He was too tired and honestly unmotivated to keep up with whatever was going on here. Brett was going to shadow him? Now? He really should have asked for another day. Or left a little sooner.

"I guess so?" Lance replied, more a question than acceptance. It wasn't really up to him what Steve wanted to do with the staff. Steve nodded at him, apparently trying to communicate some information to Lance with the gesture.

"Wait," Brett said, caught off guard. "I'm confused. Is this a training or a shift?"

"You get paid the same either way," Steve reminded him, attempting good humor. "But it's a training, for the record." Oh, Lance thought he understood now. Brett had probably made some mistakes yesterday while covering for Lance that Steve wanted to remedy with another training. Lance wasn't sure how he felt about this; it was almost like Steve had tricked them into it. But not really. And Lance had trained Brett before, which actually didn't say much for him now if Brett was screwing up. Maybe this was a punishment for both of them – a statement that Brett needed to learn more and that Lance needed to teach better.

"Brett, you're just watching Lance this morning," Steve clarified exactly how he wanted things to go. "Really watch him; he's the best we've got. Before you leave, we'll do a venipuncture test to make sure you've got it."

"On a donor?" Lance asked, wanting to make sure he'd understood that correctly.

"On you," Steve volunteered him, which put pressure on Lance to make sure Brett knew what he was doing since he'd be sticking a needle into Lance's arm in a few hours in front of Steve. Lance did not shift his eyes heavenward, but he wanted to. Today? Really? This had to happen today? He supposed he'd known that there would be repercussions from taking an entire day off for Keith, but he hadn't thought that it would mean he'd have to actually bleed for it.

He felt Brett's eyes on him, not hostile, maybe wounded. This was quite the blow to his ego. He'd thought he'd already successfully completed training. He's not a bad guy, Lance reminded himself. Steve has a point; if you taught him better, you wouldn't be doing this.

"Go on and get ready," Steve instructed Brett, appreciation in his tone, doing a great job of ignoring the dark expression on Brett's face.

Brett set off immediately to wash his hands and don his lab coat, stock up his pockets with tape and gauze. Lance automatically moved to follow him, but Steve put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. Lance closed his eyes for a minute, waiting for some kind of reprimand on his training.

"You all right, Lance?" Steve asked him, which took Lance by surprise almost more than anything else that had happened this morning. Maybe because he didn't know. The real world, his normal schedule, seemed weird and wrong to him all of a sudden. Part of him was still in his room, watching Keith sleep, thinking about what was going to happen now. He knew it was slowing him down, but he hadn't thought it was enough for anyone else to notice.

"Fine," Lance responded automatically, the translated answer to 'it's so complicated, we don't have time or energy to get into it.' Steve looked doubtful, but since what he'd wanted was to have Lance and Brett here at the same time, he eased into acceptance of the answer.

"Let me know if that changes," Steve requested before heading off toward his office. Lance admired Steve's office quite a bit. It was the only medical room Lance had ever seen that did not have stacks of paperwork all over it. Steve kept his things tight and orderly. His office, his shifts, his training schedules. Everything in place.

Lance also went to his place, shrouding himself in the white lab coat and getting ready to show Brett, again, how to successfully place a needle. It actually turned out to be a good thing to have a shadow on his shift. Having Brett at Lance's side kept Keith out of his head. It meant he couldn't zone out; he had to verbally narrate everything he was doing and why. He told Brett how to rely on what he felt instead of what he could see. They spoke at length about angle and pressure. Brett proved a good sport and a good student, answering correctly all of Lance's questions. But then again, knowing what to do had never been Brett's problem. During the next three hours, Lance took care of twenty-four donors and only had time to wonder how Keith was doing twice. He'd also almost forgotten about Brett's test. If Steve hadn't come to get them shortly before the shift was up, Lance might have said good work and good-bye to Brett and left without giving it another thought.

"Ok, guys, come on," Steve invited them into the back area behind the cashier's office. There were a few cots back there, reserved for patients who were feeling faint or for this sort of training test. "Let's see how it went."

Lance would feel more victimized by this if he hadn't done it himself when he was new, cannulating his own trainer last year when he'd started working at the donation center. He'd also been on the receiving end of a needle many times for new trainees. It was never a big deal, but Lance discovered he was actually nervous having Brett do it. Even though he knew that Steve would be there and nothing really awful could possibly happen with a #14-gauge catheter. It's not like Brett could kill or maim him. Still. He wanted it to be over.

"Show him we know what we're doing," Lance told Brett, trying to sound casual as he positioned himself on the cot and extended his arm. Brett didn't look very concerned about the test. He looked like Lance felt – like he wanted to get it out of the way. A little like he had something to prove. As usual, he moved too quickly.

"Take your time," Steve invited, not knowing that Brett wasn't rushing because he was nervous about being watched. This was just his normal pace. Lance pressed his lips together tightly so he wouldn't say anything. It wasn't fair to Brett to tell him to do things he was already planning on doing. Not that he had much heads up to give Brett any instruction. The Texan was moving almost frighteningly fast through the prep work. Tearing open the cannula kit, ripping off pieces of tape with a surprising lack of grace. It was making Lance twitchy watching him, but there wasn't anything to be said about it as Brett wasn't doing anything wrong yet.

Lance bit back a grunt as Brett stabbed him with the catheter, forcing himself not to wince. Ouch. He'd hit the vein true, as evidenced by the backsplash that pumped up into the guard, but Lance thought he could use a lot more practice on how to get access without it being torture for the patient. He hadn't collapsed the vein or rolled it, just jabbed into it too hard, like he expected Lance's skin to be more resistant. Despite this, the venipuncture had been a success. Lance looked to Steve for his assessment and saw that his expression mirrored Lance's feelings exactly.

"What do you think, Lance?" Steve asked, once Brett had reversed the whole process, removing the needle and disposing of it properly. The yanking it out part hadn't hurt, but watching Brett go at it caused Lance to tense up his arm in expectation that it would, an anxious tingling in all the nerves around the puncture site. Lance paused in his answer, pressing a gauze pad to the inside of his elbow.

"The steps were all there and correct," Lance allowed. "He did it right."

"But?" Steve prompted, and Lance wondered why he was making him say it.

"But it hurt," Lance confessed, looking apologetically at Brett. "Try slowing down. Pretend you're trying to cannulate a water balloon without popping it. In fact, I'd practice that, if I were you." Because it wouldn't do much good to have a tech on the floor that donors flat out avoided because they knew they'd be stabbed.

"That's impossible," Brett scoffed, with a forced laugh as though Lance had made a joke. Lance shrugged, not really caring if Brett took his advice or not at this point. He was ready to leave.

"No, it's not," Steve contradicted authoritatively. "I've seen Lance do it, and I agree. Get yourself some water balloons and polish up your technique. Lance? Is that going to bruise, do you think?"

"Too soon to tell," Lance admitted, though he was almost certain that it would. There were so many variables that went into a venipuncture. How much fluid was in the vein, how hard the needle had gone in, the angle, the depth, how easily the donor bruised in the first place, and what the donor did with their arm after they were finished. Sometimes a tech could bruise a donor on one visit, but then have everything go just fine the next time. Lance knew of a girl that bruised from her wrist to her shoulder on her first donation, but then never bruised again on subsequent visits. Basing Brett's performance on whether or not Lance's puncture site bruised wasn't really fair in Lance's opinion, especially since he knew he'd be working tonight. He decided to take it out as a factor in the decision-making process. Some techs hurt more than others; there was no getting around it except to have them practice. Since Brett had done the steps correctly, there wasn't any good reason not to let him practice. Though Lance intended to keep Brett away from the more delicate donors on Thursday, if he could help it.

"So do I pass?" Brett asked, rather impatiently.

"Yes," Steve allowed, slowly. "But slow it down. I had some complaints about you yesterday, and I'd rather not hear any more."

"Complaints?" Brett said, standing straighter. "About what?" Lance started to get up. He could guess exactly what the complaints had been about, but this conversation sounded as though he didn't need to stick around anymore. If he was quick, he could run home to change, eat, and check on Keith before his next classes.

"I gotta go," Lance excused himself quietly between Steve's explanations and Brett's defensive responses. "Thanks for covering for me yesterday."

He didn't think anyone even heard him, but he didn't care all that much. He wanted to get home. Except the place was deserted when he arrived. There was a note on the table from Hunk. He said that Shiro had come to pick up Keith, who looked pretty decent today, so Hunk was out with Pidge, but he'd packed Lance a lunch to take on the ambulance shift with him. He'd also left him a yam burrito to eat now.

Lance stood at the table, awkwardly reading the note repeatedly to see if there was anything more to it, though he didn't know what he expected. He thought about calling Shiro as he made his way to his bedroom to switch out the books in his backpack and change from his scrubs into his EMT uniform. This would be the last time he'd be home today. He felt a little let down that there was no one here for it, but then remembered that he'd be the one gone the most today, so it wasn't like he could expect for everyone to just sit around waiting for him to show up.

The note that Lance had written for Keith this morning lay open on his desk next to his chemistry book. At least Keith had seen it, though apparently he was going to ignore Lance's suggestion that he continue to rest. Lance picked up the paper, intent on crumpling it up and throwing it away when he saw that Keith had written him a reply. Lance set down his backpack completely so he could hold the page with both hands. He needed to really study the note as Keith's handwriting wasn't that great.

Thank you, he'd written. I'll be with Shiro. We're going to finish the adoption paperwork today, but then I'll be back.

He hadn't bothered to sign it, but the most important thing about the note was the part where he said he'd be back. That eased Lance a little about coming home and finding him gone. At least it wasn't a permanent thing. Lance shot a glance to the corner of his room, comforted to see Keith's duffle bag still there. He wouldn't leave without that.

After so much note reading, Lance again had to hurry. He buttoned into his uniform, zipped up his reorganized backpack, and barely took the time to reheat the burrito before scarfing it down, eating the last few bites in the hallway on his way out again.

Then there was just chemistry and early child development for the next several hours, and one last phone check before Lance was back at the hospital, though this time on the other side of it, back at the emergency room. Dr. Delacroix might have been here earlier, but she'd already finished her shift by the time Lance arrived. He wondered if Officer Guist had emailed her yet, and if she'd been pissed or pleased if he had. Lance stowed his backpack and lunch in his assigned locker, padlocking them inside. He had to leave his phone there too. He put it in reluctantly after noticing, again, that he hadn't received word from anyone at all today. Had they all just forgotten him or something?

It wasn't Grayson and Stefany scheduled with him tonight since he'd changed his normal shift day. They worked Saturdays. Today he was with Connor Shaughnessy and Dante Medina – names he knew, people he did trainings with, but neither of them were familiar to him in a work environment. They'd never done a shift together, just meetings. They arrived just a few minutes after Lance, even though he'd arrived early.

"Hey, McClain, we never ride with you!" Connor greeted him, fresh and enthusiastic, extending his hand to Lance.

Lance recognized Connor almost instantly, remembering his heavily freckled face. He also remembered that Connor and his wife had recently had their first baby; there'd been a little shower at the last First Responder's meeting about it, though Lance had never seen the newborn or Connor's wife in person.

"I asked to switch my day," Lance admitted, reaching out to take Connor's hand. Connor gripped him tight and friendly, pulling him close so he could pat him on the back before letting him go. It made Lance feel a little better about his day and his upcoming night in the field. It eased the lonely, abandoned emotions he'd been fighting since he left home this morning, the ones that had deepened when he came home at lunch to an empty apartment.

"Couldn't take the weekend traffic anymore, huh?" Dante put in as he opened his own locker. "Wanted to try a boring Tuesday graveyard?"

That actually sounded magnificent to Lance at the moment. He was still so tired from the weekend, from sleeping for only a few uncomfortable hours at a time, from being on high alert and monitoring for so many straight days. A boring night waiting around for a call would be the next best thing to sleeping in his own bed.

"I hear you guys have more fun and less bullet wounds," Lance returned, almost feeling playful. It's ok to feel normal, he told himself. Keith's ok. He's coming back. You'll see him tomorrow. You're going to have to figure out how your life works now that you can't be with him all the time.

"Oh? Is that what they told you?" Dante asked, and Lance couldn't tell if the older man was joking with him or not. Dante had run the weeknight graveyard shift for almost fifteen years. Lance had met his wife a few times, a seemingly shy woman who had the most amazing smile, especially when she looked at Dante. They had five children, all of them boys. Dante would be the Incident Commander in Charge for tonight, which Lance accepted with relief. He wanted to be told what to do for a while, and hopefully, things really would be boring.

"Dante, come on," Connor shoved him. "You're freaking him out." The way Connor spoke here told Lance that they both considered him a kid, which made sense on Dante's side, but Connor was barely thirty. Part of Lance wanted to protest this view, but part of him wanted to use it to his advantage. He placed his hand over his venipuncture bandage, which was starting to ache. Brett had really been rough with him.

"What, McClain?" Dante exclaimed with exaggerated surprise. "He doesn't freak out; look at him! He's rock solid." He switched his attention over to Lance, becoming instantly serious. "But we do need to go over a few things, because I heard some rumors about you and I'd like to validate them before we're called out. Fair?"

Lance compelled his shoulders not to slump. Rumors? He couldn't even imagine.

"Fair," he replied, mostly because he didn't have a choice.

"Ok then, true or false. Your face got messed up in a bar fight last weekend?"

Lance choked on a laugh. He still wasn't sure if this was going to end up painful for him, but it wasn't starting off so bad.

"False," he responded, glad that he could tell the truth. "It was a combative patient on Friday morning." Or at least be truthful _enough_.

"All right. Next question. I heard you cannulated a patient on Saturday, even though you were unauthorized and off duty, is that true or false?" Oh. So that piece of information had made the rounds already? Lance sighed, but he refused to look away from Dante. He'd already endured Dr. Delacroix about this; he wasn't going to be intimidated by it now. Though he could see that this was going south in a hurry.

"True," Lance confessed, which made Connor whistle from his witness position on the sidelines.

"And you ignored protocol and Stefany Lopez's directions?" Lance took another long breath, wondering if it would help if he explained himself. If he could make Dante understand how that had been an anomaly for him.

"Also true," Lance answered simply, judging from the expression on Dante's face that he didn't want excuses or explanations. How they were both all the same to him, and he wasn't all that happy by Lance's response.

"Last one," Dante continued darkly. "True or false. You are not going to be pulling any of that Maverick shit on me tonight. You're going to do everything I tell you when I tell you."

"True," Lance said with conviction, staring straight into Dante's dark eyes. Dante held his gaze, gauging his answer, looking every bit like a father with five sons.

"Good," Dante released him, and so the night began.

Lance quickly found out that there was nothing much different between Tuesday or Saturday night. About the same amount of crap happened. They responded to a horrible traffic accident where they took one of the drivers to the ER and left the pieces of the other for the coroner. There were no drive-by shootings, but there was a domestic violence call that required police backup. They went almost to the edge of their area to see to a little girl having a seizure who was fine and then turned around when a call came in from a terrified roommate who walked in on a botched suicide attempt. There was an obese man with angina pain and a Spanish speaking woman in labor whose husband delivered her baby on the side of the road on the way to the hospital.

Quite a lot going on in the dark, cold of a January night when all should have been peaceful and sleeping. Lance was always amazed at how many people were awake all night long. How there were always other cars on the road when the ambulance went out. Always lights on in the houses and apartment buildings, in the offices and the gas stations. All the activity that happened after the sun went down. How it all meant that he was not going to get a break.

Between calls, Lance assisted Dante and Connor in taking care of the vehicle. Making sure it was always filled with fuel. Putting things away that had been knocked down or replacing items that had been used. Sterilizing after blood spills, writing up the paperwork in the aftermath. Running, moving, shifting from trying to remember what the date was, before or after midnight, to grabbing his coat and rushing for the door. Through it all, Lance deferred to Dante and Conner. He meekly accepted every request they put to him, a diligent robot, though Dante was kind by protecting Lance from the worst of the traffic accident fatality.

It was also Dante who shook his shoulder somewhere around six in the morning after Lance had fallen asleep waiting in the back of the ambulance. He woke up startled at the company and the environment, embarrassed that he'd nodded off when he should have been cleaning.

"Where are we going?" Lance asked, trying to wake himself up, focus on the next emergency. Dante held him still.

"Home," Dante answered. "The next shift is here and I've already gone over everything with them. Go get some sleep, McClain. Great job last night. I hope to ride with you again."

"Thanks," Lance slurred, exhausted despite his catnap. He wished he could go home and sleep, but his English class was in two hours. He'd have just enough time to get his stuff, go home to shower and change, drink some very strong coffee, and then head out again. He checked his phone as he put on his coat and backpack. This time there were a few texts. One from Hunk congratulating him on remembering his dinner and wishing him good luck on the run. One from Pidge asking if he'd been involved with the traffic accident last night. The last was from Keith.

Are you always this busy?

Lance smiled through his exhaustion. His impulse was to respond right away, but he stopped himself when he remembered it wasn't even six thirty yet and Keith was definitely asleep. Also, Keith had sent the text last night at nine, so it wasn't like he was still waiting for an answer. It would be better to just get home as quickly as possible. See if Keith were even there. Because even though he said he'd be back, that didn't mean he'd be back that night. Or today. Knowing that Lance would be gone might have meant that Keith had slept at Shiro's last night. Only one way to find out.

Lance's body protested the pace he set on the way home through the icy air. His muscles were weary; he didn't even want to look at the place where Brett had pierced him after all the heavy lifting he'd done. His back ached and burned at the same time, making Lance guess he had been a little too casual about getting antibiotic on it the last couple days. Mostly, he was just a crushing sort of tired. Like he was every night he stayed up with the ambulance, but this time he couldn't just go collapse into bed and sleep most of Sunday after he hung up with his family.

You knew you'd regret this, Lance reminded himself as he slogged through campus on his way home. By the time he'd reached his apartment building, the sun was just making its appearance over the lake, somehow looking different since Lance had also watched it go down the previous night.

He eased himself into the apartment, trying to make as little noise as possible. Hunk could sleep through just about anything, but Lance wasn't sure who else might be here. It wasn't often that Pidge slept over on weeknights, but last weekend had changed a lot about the apartment – particularly the who was there and when part.

The couch was empty of everything except the familiar afghan, meaning that Pidge hadn't spent the night. However, Keith's coat and boots were in the tangle by the door, which meant that he had. Seeing that eased Lance's heart. He'd stayed. The table was an endearing cluttered mess of electronics again, and the rich scent of coffee was heavy in the air. Hunk had apparently reconciled himself to the coffeemaker and even fixed the timer so it would be ready for Lance the moment he walked in the door.

"Thank you, Hunk," Lance murmured as he leaned against the counter, steadying himself to pour the strong brew into the biggest mug they owned. Knowing it was way too hot to try and swallow, Lance did the next best thing and hugged the warmth close to his chest, keeping it near his face so he could inhale the steamy blackness of it, and taking it with him to the couch. He had to set it down for a minute so he could undo the laces on his boots, tucking them to the side. Then he reclaimed the mug and stretched out as much as was possible on the couch, sagging sideways into the back of it and closing his eyes. For just a minute. Just until the coffee was cool enough to drink. It was a bit of a risk to sit still like this, and he knew it, so he positioned himself so that if he did end up falling asleep, he'd douse himself in scalding coffee.

What he really wanted to do was go into his room and check on Keith, but he didn't want to wake him up. He'd have to go in there eventually, for his clean clothes and the textbooks he'd need for the day. Since he wasn't sure if he could do that without disturbing Keith, he figured he'd wait so he'd only wake him once, if at all. Though it turned out that he'd already woken Keith, just from walking in the door.

"Lance?"

Lance opened one eye, too tired to even startle at the unexpected voice. But when he saw Keith standing at the edge of the couch, one hand resting on the wall as he leaned against it, Lance forced himself to a sitting position. He knew it was mostly because he was exhausted and on the couch, but he'd never seen Keith looking so tall. It was rather a surprise.

"Hey, Keith, sorry I woke you," Lance managed, his voice all croaky from being up all night. He tried a sip of the coffee, discovering it was the most powerfully delicious stuff he'd had in a very long time. It made him close his eyes again, sighing appreciatively. "Guess I'm used to Hunk being a heavy sleeper. How are you doing? Feeling better?"

"I'm fine," Keith dismissed, obviously not wanting to talk about himself, staring at Lance in that unnerving way again. Like he wasn't sure who Lance was, but Keith intended to find out. "Is this something you do all the time?"

"No, just once a month for training." Lance took another careful swallow of coffee, trying so summon more energy for Keith, who had perched on the chair and looked ready to have some kind of conversation, though Lance would prefer talking about Keith than about last night. "It was bad timing on this one, but I asked for it."

"How'd it go?" Keith asked, rather gently, as though he weren't sure about Lance anymore. Like something had happened in their day apart. "We heard there was a car accident. Did you have to go to that?"

"Did Pidge have her police scanner over here or something?" Lance asked, shaking his head, trying not to make this a big deal. He'd told them before not to listen to it when he was on call. It made Hunk worry and it made Pidge ask him way too many questions the next time she saw him. Lance gingerly leaned back into the couch, drained, watching Keith nod almost guiltily.

"We were there," Lance finally gave in, doing his best not to picture too vividly how bad that had been. Dante had taken one look on scene and half-shoved Lance back into the bay, forcing him to wait on radio until he and Connor brought the surviving driver over to him. He hadn't even wanted Lance to see the other one. Even so, the victim they'd brought to the hospital only barely made it. Lance wasn't all that sure he'd be going home.

"Hey," Keith called to him, shaking him from the memory, bringing him back to the apartment. "Why don't you go get some sleep?"

Lance pushed himself up until he was sitting on the edge of the couch, less in danger of drifting off. He took a long swig of coffee.

"Because I can't," he answered, trying to sound more alert. "I've got class in an hour." Technically, so did Keith, but Lance wasn't in favor of Keith walking all the way there in the early morning cold. It was a little too soon in the recovery period for that. And Lance hadn't done a stats check on him in over twenty-four hours. Some doctor he was.

"Class?" Keith repeated incredulously.

"Yeah, you know," Lance told Keith, keeping his tone light, like this was something he did all the time. "English class? Starts at eight."

"What are you crazy? Just skip it," Keith lectured, and Lance seriously considered it. It didn't make much sense, though. After English, Lance had a critique and debriefing meeting at the hospital for last night's run, and then his rescheduled Spanish oral. Skipping English wouldn't help him much. Not only that, Lance knew that getting only a few hours' sleep at this point would make him feel worse than not getting any sleep at all. Better stay up and stay moving. He could sleep tonight. Probably.

"I wish," Lance practically groaned, drinking more coffee. Such good, happy coffee. "I've got a meeting at the hospital right after that I can't skip, so there's not much point." 

"So when are you coming back?" Keith asked, almost angrily. Lance looked at the ceiling, thinking about that. The question and the tone.

"My shift at the donation center ends at eight tonight, so however long it takes me to walk home after that," Lance answered. Keith looked enraged about this answer. "Unless you need me," Lance amended, seriously, trying but failing to meet Keith's gaze. "If you need me to stay, I can get out of almost everything except the meeting at the hospital, but that shouldn't take more than a couple hours. So how are you doing? How did yesterday go for you? You were gone when I came home for lunch."

"Shiro took me to the clerk's office," Keith offered, his voice melting slightly though his face remained mad. "We weren't gone all that long."

"So you're legal now?" Lance asked, liking how the conversation was turning away from him, though he hoped he could figure out what he'd said that had infuriated Keith soon. "Are you going to change your name or anything?"

"No," Keith said quickly, as though he'd never entertained that thought for very long. "I'm keeping my name, but everything's official."

"Congratulations," Lance toasted him with the last of his coffee. "I'm glad for you. Though I'd hoped you'd stay here and take it easy yesterday."

"It took less than two hours," Keith defended himself, but there was something in his voice that told Lance that Keith was pretty pissed at how tiring his small excursion out of the apartment had been.

"Bet it wore you out, though," Lance ventured, and this time Keith full on glared at him. It made Lance pause, remembering how Keith had acted when they'd first met, how wild and fierce he had been. Now that he was getting better, it seemed that part of him was returning. Keith turned his head away, hiding his expression, putting Lance off balance. He thought he was getting to know Keith, but he should have known that Keith would be a completely different creature once his fever broke.

"Give yourself a break," Lance tried to fix what he'd just done. "You almost died less than three days ago. You think you can just jump back into what you used to be able to do?"

"Yes," Keith said, curtly. And Lance could hear it. In Keith's mind, he still wasn't completely free, and it was messing with him. The court had freed him. The foster system had freed him. But his body was keeping him a prisoner still. And Lance felt guilty that something that was so frustrating to Keith was something that he was taking advantage of. Something he needed to go on, just a little longer. Though he had to admit, he was struggling to find the time that he wanted to be with Keith, to experiment on how they were now that he was getting better. It wasn't working the way he'd wanted; his schedule was too brutal for any extra or new activity.

Lance found himself reaching out to Keith, as he'd done countless times over the weekend, intending on resting the back of his hand on Keith's forehead, a rudimentary gauge of his temperature. To his astonishment, Keith actually flinched away from him, a gesture that twisted hard in Lance's spirit. It was happening. Keith was pulling away from him, from the experience they'd shared. It had been terrible enough that Keith wanted to distance himself from it. Meaning, he didn't want to be here. Didn't want Lance to touch him. Here soon, he may want to forget about Lance entirely, a remnant from a past he wanted to leave far behind.

"I'm fine," Keith repeated, adamant, though Lance could hear his heartrate in his voice. Speeding up.

"I know," Lance agreed, still wanting to touch Keith but no longer feeling as though he were allowed to. "Can I do a stat check anyway?"

"Really?" Keith asked, frustrated, and this time he sounded tired.

"Please?" Lance pleaded, standing up with the expectation that Keith would follow him into his bedroom where his notebook and stethoscope were.

"You're unbelievable," Keith huffed, but he also got to his feet. Lance noticed with relieved apprehension how much easier it was for Keith to stand, to walk on his own without leaning on the wall. The slight hunch in his shoulders was the only clue that he wasn't quite at a hundred percent yet. Lance still had a little time.

Keith kept his gaze on the floor all the while Lance took his readings. His blood pressure read normal, as did his oxygen level. Though his heart rate was still slightly higher than average at seventy-six and his temperature too came in at 99.1. Lance was starting to wonder if Keith was one of those people who just ran hot all the time, but he'd need so many more readings over the next week to figure out if that were true. But he didn't think that Keith would allow this too many more times.

By the time Lance was finished, Keith looked as sleepy as Lance felt. All Lance wanted to do was curl up on Keith's chest and close his eyes too, but that was dangerous to even daydream about. Lance busied himself putting his med gear away, pulling out his clothes and scrubs from the dresser, and rearranging his backpack again. Keith watched him quietly, his expression rather perplexed and the tiniest bit angry still.

"I'm going to take a quick shower," Lance told Keith where he was going. "You should get some more sleep. How's your mouth? Could you eat anything yesterday?"

"Not really," Keith muttered after a long pause, as though he didn't want to tell Lance that information.

"I know it's annoying," Lance admitted, sad that his apartment had become a prison all on its own when he'd hoped it would be more welcoming and comfortable for Keith by now. "But I'd like for you to stay here at least until you can eat normally, all right? Then I'll know you've made a full recovery. Until then, just rest as much as possible. You don't have anywhere you need to be, do you?"

"We're meeting Krolia later," Keith said. "And her friend in finance. There's still a lot of paperwork to get through, I guess."

Lance didn't like the sound of that. Shiro was coming to pick Keith and take him out again? Didn't he understand that Keith needed to _rest_?

"Try not to overdo it," Lance reminded him.

"Look who's talking," Keith murmured, though he was obediently tucking himself back into Lance's bed.

"Take your meds later," Lance went on as though he hadn't heard. "And don't forget to eat. If you need me, you can call me. I'll come home. Ok?"

Lance could no longer read Keith's expression, though after another long pause, he did nod in agreement to Lance's offer. It was all Lance could do to not smooth the quilt over Keith, run his fingers through his hair. He sighed away his longing and gathered his things, closing the door softy on his way out.

The rest of the day went by in an exhausted blur. Lance sat in the back during English, the place where Keith had been when they'd first met. For part of the lecture, Lance had to stand up or he'd have been the one sleeping through class.

The debriefing at the hospital went almost as Lance expected, though it was Dr. Delacroix who went over the cases with him, going through them one by one, asking him what had happened, if anything had gone wrong, if there was something he would have changed or improved if he'd had the chance to do it over. The words continued back and forth between them until they'd run through every op of the night; Dr. Delacroix intent on his every sentence, making him feel again like he was taking a test. Only when they'd discussed every call at length did Angelique turn to other topics – asking about Keith and the trial. Asking if Lance had suffered any delayed panic response to any of the cases on the run. She seemed satisfied by his answers. Keith's fever was broken; he'd been acquitted. Lance hadn't been shaky at all last night.

He lied to her only twice. The first time when she asked if he was taking care of the wound on his back. The second was when she'd asked him if he was ok. He could tell that she'd seen right through him. But before she could ask again, he threw her off balance by asking about Officer Guist. It made her head tilt, and she amazingly lost ten years from her eyes as she confessed that yes, they were going to go out on the weekend. Lance wished her good luck and made to leave before she could press him about anything else. She looked startled at the rush, but allowed him to go when he said he had to get to class.

Where he zoned out completely while giving his oral presentation, though afterward his teacher told him he hadn't missed a single word. He would have skipped his ballroom dance class if attendance wasn't a mandatory grading point.

Before he knew it, he was back at the donation center. On Wednesday. He worked the floor, without a trainee this time, and thought back to last week. When he'd had his first conversation with Allura about the book she was reading. When they'd made plans to meet and talk about it. When that had been the thing Lance wanted most in the entire world.

Between donors, Lance watched the clock, silently enduring the teasing from his coworkers for paying so much attention to it and how it was nearing six. He hadn't thought much about it, but now that he was here, he did want to see Allura. Wanted to hook her up to the centrifuge as though nothing had happened between them. Or maybe he wanted to get her started and then stay beside her to explain exactly what happened, force her to understand that he'd made the right choice.

But then six came and went, and Allura didn't come. The teasing changed for a little while afterward, queries about what Lance had done to offend his pretend-girlfriend. If they'd fought or if she'd just gotten tired of him staring at her like that. Though it wasn't long before all the teasing stopped completely and new questions and apologies started. Lance, we didn't mean anything. Maybe she's just busy this week. Don't worry about it. Are you all right?

The last one was repeated so many times that Lance got frustrated replying to it. Yes, he was fine. Just leave him alone already. He was just tired. So, so tired. The disappointment was nothing compared to the ache of exhaustion. It took so long for six o'clock to turn into eight, for Lance to retrieve his coat and backpack, shield himself as best he could, and head finally toward his apartment. To Hunk and maybe Pidge. And Keith.

When he walked through the door after the long, cold trip, his apartment was full. Dinner was there on the table, though just one serving that Hunk had prepped for him. Pidge had her laptop on the couch, her feet up on the coffee table, reading something to Hunk as he tended to his herb garden on the kitchen counter. And Shiro sat at attention, his elbows on the table with his fingers pressed together, just touching his lips. Keith was nowhere to be seen, but Lance saw his coat again in the pile on the camp chair, so he had to be somewhere in the apartment as well.

"Lance, you look like a zombie," Pidge interrupted herself to comment, which brought Hunk's attention from his miniature rosemary bush.

"It's been a long day," Lance defended, hoping not to sound too sharp. He slumped into a chair across from Shiro and stared at the plate Hunk had made for him, not even being able to tell what it was. He wondered if it were too late to suggest that Hunk make another pot of that glorious coffee.

"Yeah, your day is at what? Thirty-eight hours and counting?" Pidge continued, closing her computer. Lance dragged his eyes over to glare at her. She knew why he'd changed his ambulance schedule. They'd planned the whole thing. It was up to her to keep Hunk out of the apartment so Lance could cook and get ready for birthday festivities. His pointed look seemed to jog her memory about it, and she stopped smirking.

"Where's Keith?" Lance changed the subject, absently picking up his fork to sample whatever Hunk had made for him. Not even noticing if he were actually hungry or not, but he knew he must be. "How's he doing?"

"He's lying down," Shiro answered, speaking for the first time but not moving. "He was waiting for you but was having a hard time staying awake. Now that you're here, though, we can get going."

"What?" Lance paused, swallowing his bite without chewing. "No, don't. If he's asleep, don't wake him up. He's fine where he is."

Shiro blinked with exaggerated slowness, carefully lowering his clasped hands onto the table. "Lance," he began, and Lance knew exactly where this was going. It doesn't make sense for Keith to stay here anymore. He's taking your bed, and you definitely need it. Both excellent points, but Lance didn't want to hear them.

"Could he eat today?" Lance cut Shiro off. "Was he dizzy or breathless at all?" You know, when you took him outside against my advice? Lance may be dragging this out, but Shiro was rushing it. Shiro took a deep breath, locking eyes with Lance.

"He ate," Shiro disclosed, as though giving an official report. "But it was a struggle. And you're right, he was getting dizzy and breathless toward the end of our meetings today."

"Then he should stay here," Lance decided, adamant about it. Shiro's mouth twitched.

"For how long?" He demanded. Because as much as Lance wanted Keith to stay, Shiro wanted Keith to come with him. He was Keith's brother now, legally. Lance was . . . nothing. Though Lance did wonder why Keith had been waiting for him to come home. Maybe to say good-bye like Shiro suggested?

"Until he's fully recovered," Lance said, then decided that he respected Shiro enough for a better answer. He couldn't be selfish about this. "When he's strong enough that a simple meeting doesn't exhaust him to the point where he's in bed asleep before eight at night. When he can eat like a normal person." Because eating normal food would settle the anemia, which would relieve Keith's heart, ease any dizziness or weakness that was leftover from all of this.

"Then I guess we'll wait until you give the ok for him to be officially discharged," Shiro said, lightly enough, but Lance felt wounded by it. Like he was keeping Keith here against his will, but he didn't want to believe it. "I'll come by tomorrow to check on him again. Will you be here?"

Thursday. Lance's longest day of the week. He'd be gone by seven thirty in the morning, and wouldn't be back until a little after eight. Lance was never home on Thursdays. Keith was making him realize that he was hardly ever still at all.

"If Keith needs me," Lance promised. "I'll be here."

Shiro looked worried, conflicted. He got up gracefully from his chair, said good-night to Hunk and Pidge, thanking them for keeping him company, for giving him dinner, for helping with Keith. Lance's friends responded cordially, exchanges happening over Lance's head as he stared at the uneaten food on his plate that he hadn't wanted much in the first place and knew he couldn't finish now. He was so tired.

Lance tried to stand up to see Shiro out, but Shiro put his robotic hand on Lance's shoulder, keeping him in his chair. Lance only had enough energy to stare at Shiro's shoes, waiting for whatever he still had to say.

"It'll be all right, Lance," Shiro told him, making Lance's breath catch in his throat. How did he know? Sure, it would be great for him. He and Keith were family; nothing could take that away from them anymore. Lance just nodded as if he believed it, and Shiro disappeared into the hall.

He'd no sooner closed the door than Hunk and Pidge were at the table with Lance, staring at him in concern and curiosity. He didn't want to talk to either of them.

"Sorry, guys," he apologized, this time succeeding in standing. "I just want to go to bed, ok?"

"Makes sense," Pidge allowed.

"You can take my bed," Hunk offered. "I can sleep on the couch tonight." Lance smiled at his roommate, genuinely touched.

"Hunk," he said. "There's no way you can sleep on the couch. I'll be just fine on the floor. But," he amended as he saw that Hunk was sad at being refused. "If you wanted to do that magic coffee timer thing you set up yesterday, that would be amazing."

"Coffee?" Hunk said, confused.

"You know, you fixed the timer so it was ready when I came home? That was the best cup of coffee I've ever had."

"That was Keith," Pidge volunteered when Hunk still looked lost. "He made the coffee. He set it for tomorrow too."

"He did?" Lance repeated, wrapping his head around that. Though now that he thought about it, Hunk's coffee making skills were surprisingly awful compared to what else he could do in a kitchen. But it was still confusing to Lance to hear that Keith had done it. "Huh."

Lance turned toward his room, but Pidge asked him one more question before he took a step.

"So Lance? It's Wednesday. Were you able to talk to Allura? Set everything straight?"

"She never came," Lance replied, his head hanging, not turning from where he stood facing the hallway. He also didn't wait to hear anything more; he hurried into the warm darkness of his room where Keith once again slept quietly in his bed.

Lance plopped into his desk chair, too tired to move, watching Keith. That broody punk had just sat there and watched Lance drink his coffee without saying a word about it. What the hell did that mean? Did it mean anything?

The only thing Lance knew for sure was that his time with Keith was coming to an end. And even though he was exhausted, he sat there with his eyes open for much longer than he should have, watching Keith breathe, wishing he would wake up so he could talk to him, wishing that he would just continue to sleep for days and days. Wishing that he knew what Keith wanted. Wishing it was the same thing that Lance did.

"_No me dejas_," was the last thing Lance remembered whispering.

**Author's Note: Aww, Lance, you're making ME tired. How is everyone else doing? I know there wasn't a lot of Keith and Lance in this chapter – if you missed it, that was kind of the point. How is our busy doctor-to-be supposed to make time in his schedule for a boyfriend. . . when he's not even sure if the boy in question is interested?**

**Dilemma.**

**But, Lance, my sweetheart – you can't keep sleeping on the floor, or the couch, or staying up all night watching Keith sleep. You can only do that so long – as we'll find out next chapter. Let me know what you think, my dears. You know I love hearing from you!**


	26. Liability

**Author's Note: Thanks so much for your patience, guys, as I work so slowly through these updates. I've been waiting for this chapter almost since I started writing this story. The scenes in it have been in my head for so long – it feels great to get them out and down and documented. I hope you enjoy!**

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Liability**

For the next hours of darkness, Lance found himself waking up repeatedly. His conflicted emotions, weariness, and worry tangled together in a manner that was hardly conducive to rest. All through the night, he struggled to find a position of comfort on his bedroom floor, though it got better after he tossed the contents of his clothes hamper out, making himself a wrinkled laundry nest. But even after he'd settled physically, he found himself shaken awake continually in fifteen to thirty-minute intervals. Like something was wrong. Like the emergency pager was going off. Like he was still on call and shouldn't be sleeping. Like he was missing something important. He'd jerk awake, unnerved to find he was shrouded in dark, neither in his bed nor in the ambulance, taking longer each time to figure out why. Once he was oriented, he'd look to Keith, trying to remember if he were in the same position he had been the last time Lance had checked on him, reassuring himself that he was there. Then, satisfied that Keith was still sleeping and hadn't disappeared in the middle of the night, he'd put his head down and close his eyes, frustrated that he couldn't just fall asleep and stay that way.

You're being dumb, he'd remind himself, shifting to accommodate the slope of his shoulder, the angle of his hip, rearranging his clothes underneath him as his constant moving would slide them out from under him. Everything's over. Still, every tiny thing woke him. A car driving outside the window. Soft murmurings or stirrings from Keith, every twist that he made on Lance's bed. Images of the night before that kept floating to the surface of his subconscious. The driver. The failed suicide. The lights of the ambulance, the burning ache of his back. Shiro's words.

It was almost a relief when morning came and Lance could stop trying to rest. He got up a little before he needed to, stiff and heavy, gathering his laundry mattress and shoving it back into the hamper. Then he slogged into the kitchen to see if Keith's coffee would be as amazing this morning as it had been yesterday. The strong scent of it lay thick in the apartment, just the smell doing the job of easing Lance's muscles, helping his senses turn on again. And somehow, it even seemed to taste better, so Lance gratefully guzzled half of it as he got ready for his biology lab, and selfishly poured the rest in his travel mug. Then, feeling guilty, he cleaned everything and started a fresh batch for Hunk and Keith when they woke up. If Keith could even drink coffee yet.

Lance began writing another note for Keith, which was full of words that actually had nothing to do with what he really wanted to tell him. Instead he wrote most of the same things as yesterday. A reminder for his medication. A recap of some lingering symptoms he should pay attention to. A plea for him to try and eat. And an apology for not being home much the last couple days. Though Lance confirmed that Thursday would be the last busy day. He'd be home a little after eight. Unless Keith needed him. Lance really wished that Keith still needed him. Not that he wanted him to still be sick, scared, or hurting, but there were other ways to be needed. Better ways. He wished he had time and ability to talk to him about it, though he wasn't sure if that was something he had strength to discuss.

He wasn't quite finished when Keith once again surprised him from the hallway. Lance never heard him; it seemed that Keith never made much noise when he moved. He just appeared in the early morning shadows of the apartment, standing where he had yesterday, at the junction where the living room split into two halls, one that went to the bathroom and Hunk's bedroom and the other that led to Lance's room. Keith leaned there in Lance's pajama bottoms and hoodie, his hands hidden in the front pocket, the light from the kitchen illuminating only parts of his face, putting an interesting sheen over his black hair. Lance felt an urgent tug deep in his stomach, both from the start of seeing Keith somewhere he hadn't expected him to be and from how much better he looked. Taller, not shaking. His skin was no longer flushed or mottled. It was pale and perfect. Though Lance was too far away to see if he could determine his eye color yet.

"We're going to have to get you a bell or something," Lance said, forcing himself not to stare, trying to hide all the emotions that Keith had stirred up in him. The surprise, several different varieties of fear, a painful longing. He crumpled up his note in his hand, no need to finish writing it now that Keith was awake and standing in front of him. "Are you feeling ok?"

"Lance," Keith began, a crease appearing between his eyes, his tone full of wearied patience. He shook his head, as though changing his mind about whatever he'd been about to say. "I'm fine." There came another pause as Keith studied the coffee table. "Not so sure about you, though," he murmured to the floor.

"Me?" Lance tried to scoff, but discovered that his voice was sticking on something in his throat. He cleared it, trying again. "I'm good. Running a little late, but –" he trailed off, unable to continue because Keith was staring hard at him again. "What?" He asked. What is it, Keith? Why are you looking at me like that?

"What are you late for now?" Keith asked him combatively, and Lance smoothed out the note between his hands, walking over to pass it to Keith. The way their conversation was going, he might not have time to give him all his instructions verbally anymore. How come it made Keith so mad to talk to him anymore?

"Biology lab," he disclosed, trying not to falter under Keith's glare. "It lasts all morning. Then early child development and chemistry. I'll be home for a couple hours after that, but then I have the last shift at the donation center." He heard his tone drop as the list went on, noticing that there was new pain in Keith's face, deepening as he talked. Was he sure he was ok?

"Are you always this busy?" Keith repeated the question he'd texted Lance a couple days ago. Or was it yesterday? Lance wasn't even sure anymore.

"This week is kind of special," Lance started, but then realized that his answer was going to be misunderstood when Keith stiffened.

"Because of. . . ?" Keith ventured, the question sharp.

"No," Lance assured quickly, wanting Keith to understand that Lance's intense schedule had nothing to do with Monday. Though he would keep to himself the part about how he hadn't even started trying to catch up on anything he'd missed by accompanying Keith to court. Somehow he felt that would just make Keith more furious. "Hunk's birthday is on Saturday, so I changed my ambulance run. That's all I meant. But my Thursdays are always long."

Keith mumbled something else, this time too low for Lance to hear, looking with hostile shame at the floor again. Lance took a small step nearer, close enough to feel Keith's heat, making Lance wonder, again, just what Keith's natural temperature was. Wondering if it would annoy him if Lance asked to check. But first Lance wanted to hear whatever Keith had muttered, though his posture made him a little apprehensive.

"What'd you say?" Lance asked him to repeat himself, noticing that Keith had shifted away from him as he'd stepped closer. That he didn't want Lance close to him anymore. "I didn't hear you."

"Just that I get it now," Keith answered tersely, pulling his shoulders back, though he didn't quite stand straight. "Why you'd get so pissed when I couldn't meet up with you for that assignment."

"I'm sorry about that," Lance apologized immediately, hating how he'd behaved. How uncompassionate and inflexible he had been. "I had no idea what you were going through. I was being -"

"Would you shut up," Keith snapped, and Lance obeyed, closing his mouth so quickly his teeth clicked. Keith sighed, leaning moodily against the wall. "I'm the one trying to apologize," he finished, soft again.

Now they both stood quietly. Keith fidgeted with the note Lance had given him, just moving it around his fingers, not looking at it yet. The space between them filled completely with unasked questions, unspoken and confusing sentiments, undeserved desires on Lance's part. He felt he had to break the silence, needed to put his coat on and leave.

"Tell you what," Lance offered, voice as level as possible, easing the situation. Humor as always acting as his best defense. "Tell me how you've been making this amazing coffee and we'll call it even, deal?"

"Oh," Keith didn't sound very sure, though the corners of his mouth twitched slightly, as though he were fighting a smile. The tiny change in expression snapped something loose in Lance, though not in a helpful way. "I just . . make it? Like everyone?" The systems part of Lance that was ready for a recipe, or at least a measurement, slumped a little at this explanation. Apparently the method for preparing Lance's new elixir of life was going to remain one of the many mysteries that made Keith who he was.

"In that case," Lance said flippantly. "I'll just have to keep you here forever."

"Lance." Keith's eyes met his, full of question and tolerance, a glimmer of a future that Keith knew but wasn't telling. Which was good because Lance wasn't sure he wanted to know, didn't want to hear yet how Keith was done with him. Thanks for everything, but I'm out now. Lance felt his mouth fall open, realizing what he'd just said. Out loud. No wonder Keith was looking shocked.

"I've . . got to go," Lance changed the subject, dragging himself away from Keith, from his heat, from his eyes. Had to get away before Keith put any finality to their relationship, such as it was. "R-read that note. Text me if you need me."

"Lance?" Keith called him as he busied himself with separating his coat from Keith's on the camp chair, pulling it on, hiding his embarrassment at what he'd said, at what he'd wanted Keith to say back.

"Keith?" Lance returned, forcing himself to stand still, to hear with Keith wanted no matter what it was. He stood where Lance had left him, note held gently in both hands, but he'd shifted his grip against his chest. The way he did when his pulse was racing. "Is your heart all right?" Lance checked him, monitoring the posture. Keith's face hardened, tensed into something that looked like annoyance.

"Would you just –" Keith broke off, deliberately lowering his hands. "Do you ever stop? You can quit worrying about me, all right? You're the one who looks like hell."

For some reason, likely the lack of sleep, Keith's words stung. He wasn't ready to stop worrying about Keith. Wasn't ready for that to be over, even though he knew it was messing with him. Lance knew he looked as bad as Keith said. The healing bruise on his face had merged disturbingly with the bags under his eyes. His whole demeanor had some slack in it, a droop in his posture and his spirit. He knew that he was wearing his weariness like a too-heavy bag, but if he stopped, if he lightened his pace, he'd fall so far behind he would have no hope of catching up. He could already feel it, the shadow of a wave bearing down on him. He also knew that he was on the verge of something that would change his life drastically, that Keith might just be sticking around because he was waiting to tell Lance good-bye, and he just wasn't _ready_. Even though he knew it was probably for the best.

"It's my thing," Lance quipped, trying to deflect what Keith had said, ignoring the comment on his appearance. "Ask anyone." If Lance didn't leave in the next two minutes, he was going to be late. Still, he hesitated at the door, looking at Keith, pleading silently with Keith. I'll stay if you want me. If you ask me to stop everything, I'll make it happen. But somehow, he needed Keith to be the one to ask. He needed Keith to give him permission to break from his routine, to give him permission to want something he knew he shouldn't. He needed Keith to want it first.

"You're something else," Keith huffed, almost as though he'd meant to say something different.

"So you've said," Lance's replied, disappointed, but keeping his voice light. Like he hadn't spent last night tossing around in his dirty laundry, hadn't chased trauma throughout Chicago the night before, hadn't stayed the previous three nights at Keith's side, trying to soothe his sleep. Like it wasn't ripping him up inside knowing that if he left right now, Keith might not be here when he got back. Hating how he said all sorts of things except what he was actually feeling about that. "Take it easy today, all right? Keep the meetings short."

"Sure, Doc," Keith muttered, shoving his hands and Lance's note back into the hoodie pocket.

"I'll see you tonight?" Lance said, more question than farewell.

"I guess," Keith answered. Lance nodded, as if that answer had been in any way satisfying. He put on his backpack and picked up the warm travel mug.

"Thanks for this," Lance said in parting, holding up the tumbler. "It really is the best coffee ever." Keith just shrugged him off, looking as though he were headed back to Lance's bedroom as Lance shut the door. Lance would watch Keith turn away from him in memory for the rest of the day. And he would hate that it would be all he could remember.

His concentration was so damaged by Keith wearing his hoodie and his own growing exhaustion that he spent most of his time forcing himself awake or reorganizing his focus. He mangled the pig fetus he was supposed to be dissecting to the point where the lab TA declared it a lost cause and took it away from him, joking harshly that it was a good thing the poor animal was already dead.

"This isn't like you," the TA declared, scrutinizing Lance.

"I'm sorry," Lance apologized, a theme that began at lab and would continue for the remainder of the day. "It was a rough weekend."

"It's Thursday," the TA said dryly, sighing and shaking her head, as though the weekend were so far in the past that it was no longer a valid excuse. "Now come to my station and identify the main arteries of the heart so I don't have to give you a zero on this."

And so it went all day. He dozed off during child development. He gave an answer in chemistry that was so wrong his professor kept calling on him, torturously, as if trying to give him a chance to redeem himself that absolutely was not working. And then there was the other question that went on and on, no matter what classroom he found himself in, no matter who he was with.

"Are you all right?" Chelsea Wheaton asked him as she poked him awake in child development.

"Lance, you good?" Simon Daines, who sat next to him in chemistry, after he'd physically reached over to open Lance's book to the correct page for him since Lance had spaced out and missed the instruction.

"Wow, Lance, you getting better or worse?" The last was Brett as he held the door open for him upon his arrival to the donation center. By this point, Lance was sick to death of being asked this, so he growled something almost unintelligible in response. Not only was he tired of making the point that he was fine, he was nursing his own disappointment that the apartment had once again been empty when he'd gone home after chemistry. He'd known it would be empty; he'd received texts from Hunk and Keith telling him where they'd be. Hunk and Pidge were picking up their results from taking some amateur ham radio licensing test, and Keith was once again with Shiro and Krolia, going over crazy financial stuff like annuities and something called an IUL, whatever that meant.

What it meant was that no one was there. It meant that Lance switched out his books in solitary silence. Looked at how Keith had made his bed with his mouth sealed shut because no one was there to talk to. It meant that he'd tried to do some of his homework but ended up falling asleep at his desk and waking up excruciatingly groggy with just enough time to run across campus in order to not be late for work. And no one knew he had been home at all.

"Seriously, are you still sick?" Brett pressed him without any kind of social grace.

"No," Lance denied, donning his lab coat over his scrubs, moving over to the sink so he could wash his hands for the first time tonight, wishing he'd never told that lie, never knowing how it would come back to irritate him. But Brett stopped him, one of his huge hands blocking Lance at the shoulder.

"Well, you still look it," Brett told him, and Lance bit back several responses to this. He wanted to tell Brett that he could still outwork him. He wanted to snarl that at least he knew how to shave. But he swallowed all those words because Brett was looking at him with friendly concern, without any sort of rivalry or malice, that the only information he had was what he could deduct from Lance's appearance. Brett's not a bad guy, Lance told himself, and then felt even more guilty about his angry thoughts when Brett offered him one of those tiny 5-hour energy shots from his backpack.

"I better not," Lance declined. "I don't know what those would do to me and now's probably not the time to find out. But thanks."

"Ok," Brett accepted Lance's decision, but let him know that it was available in case Lance changed his mind. Lance pushed against the venipuncture that Brett had performed on him on Tuesday morning, pressing hard against the bruise there to wake himself up for what felt like the hundredth time today. He just had this one last thing to do. Just three more hours until he could go home. And by that time everyone else would be home too. Keith would be home.

But then what was he going to do? Sleep on the floor again? That wasn't working so well. He'd have to figure something else out; he couldn't keep going like this. It was hurting his schoolwork; it was making people ask him annoying questions. And honestly, Lance knew he wasn't sick, but he didn't feel great either. He felt heavy and slow and inexplicably angry. He felt like he was crumbling around the edges. He wanted to snap at people who were asking him things out of innocent concern. The TA from this morning was right; this wasn't like him at all. But the alternative to getting his bed back was for Keith to leave, which somehow seemed worse.

Lance decided it was better not to think about it. Not for the next few hours at least. He had to hold onto the whirlpool of his focus here. For the first little while, he stationed himself at the main entrance as a test of his competence, much to the confusion of his coworkers. He never ran the front desk, that was for newbies, but Brett shut everyone up about it by reminding them all that Lance had seniority and could do what he wanted, and who really cared so long as someone was volunteering. Up there all Lance had to do was weigh donors and prick their fingers to check their hemoglobin levels. The risks were low if he screwed up, but for the first time today, he felt himself relaxing into the comfort of routine. Surprisingly, this seemed to be something he could do without all his attention. Lance could run the donation floor almost literally in his sleep, so when Bethany came in almost an hour later, Lance felt confident turning the front desk over to her. She liked it better, and he was sure by this point that he'd be all right in the back.

He went through the motions, deliberately not thinking about anything other than what was right in front of him. It was easy to do, most everything in his periphery was hazy, like he physically couldn't see anything that wasn't directly in his line of vision. So he carefully cannulated donors without ever making eye contact with them, without speaking anything other than what was legally required at the beginning and ending of donations. He tightened his procedures so he could stay pretty much on autopilot, and it surprisingly felt pretty good. Despite everything, this was the most mental rest that Lance had gotten in almost a week.

Lance pulled the next chart from the wall, again without looking at it, enjoying a comfortable sort of numbness in his chest, flipping the folder open as he walked toward the waiting area, scanning the top for the name he should say to call the next person back with him. But as his eyes focused on the words, he found himself stopping dead in the doorway, all the numbness sharpening like the spike of an icicle. He almost dropped the file.

Allura Lyons.

But that wasn't right. She wasn't supposed to be here. Not today. He wasn't ready for her today. Not knowing how he dared, Lance lifted his head from the file and there she was, on a Thursday, sitting primly in one of the plastic chairs, her coat and bag on the floor at her feet. Her long white-blonde hair covered her shoulders in soft waves, almost obscuring the Nordic patterning on the yoke of her navy-blue sweater. He fought off a shudder. He'd almost forgotten how beautiful she was. How much he'd wanted to date her.

As he stared, her folder open in his hands, she turned towards him as though she'd felt the weight of his gaze on her. Their eyes met, and then Lance watched, wounded, as her face contorted into shock and dread, into embarrassment. She looked away almost immediately, her hand nervously clawing her hair behind her ear, fussing with her stuff as though she were seriously considering just picking it all up and running for the door. And that's when Lance knew. Before this second, he could have thought up a dozen different reasons why she'd needed to break her tradition of coming in on Wednesday. So many excuses for her to come in on Thursday instead this week, but upon watching her reaction to seeing him, Lance dismissed them all. The truth was obvious on her face, in the sudden tenseness of her body.

She hadn't come yesterday because she'd been trying to avoid him.

Lance heard footsteps behind him, a heavy, long stride, and he calmly closed Allura's folder, watching as she peeked painfully at him from under her extraordinary lashes, watching to see what he would do. She looked like she wanted to leave, like she'd rather be anywhere but here with him. For some reason, it made Lance think of Keith and how he'd leaned away from him this morning, how he'd flinched from under his hand the day before that. The icicle in his chest wedged deeper, colder, the weight of rejection. It hurt so much that Lance forced himself furious in defense. It was going to be like that, was it?

"Hey Brett?" Lance addressed the Texan as he also came into the waiting area, a different folder in his hands, his voice chilled. Lance let his gaze shoot back and forth between Brett and Allura as he deftly and unapologetically switched folders with the less experienced tech. "Trade me on this one."

"Uh," Brett floundered, taken off guard by Lance's behavior, wondering if it had something to do with him, if Lance was demoralizing him with this action. Brett didn't know about Allura; he'd never worked a Wednesday. He had no idea all the nuances happening here. But Allura knew. She met Lance's eyes one more time, realizing what he was doing. She didn't exactly soften, but she stopped fidgeting, a different expression rearranging her face, though Lance couldn't figure out what it was anymore. Was it relief? He tried to hold on to his anger.

"Why?" Brett asked, still trying to figure out Lance's angle, though now the concern had returned to his face. He was wondering if Lance were ok.

"Just take care of her for me," Lance quipped, no longer able to look at her. At her gorgeous inaccessibility.

"Ok," Brett agreed, though Lance hadn't given him a choice about it. Lance nodded, wounded, and then he called the name in Brett's folder, leaving Allura in Brett's choppy, ungraceful hands. He noted as he started toward the back with the traded donor that Brett couldn't even say Allura's name correctly.

By the time he'd seated his new patient, Lance regretted what he'd just done. That's not like you, the TA repeated in his head, and he knew it. He wasn't petty like that. Was he? He wasn't really going to let Brett hook Allura up to the centrifuge, was he? She was strong and not in the least bit squeamish, but since when had Lance wanted her to get hurt? No matter what she'd done to him or thought of him. And yeah, it was obvious that she hadn't wanted Lance to be the tech assigned to her, but that was because she had zero experience with anyone else. She had no idea about Brett or any of the others. Lance had never let anyone else touch her.

But she'd learn very quickly. In just a few minutes, Allura was going to understand that not every lab technician at the donation center was as gentle as Lance, as careful as Lance. That part was something that Lance could live with. The part that was bugging him was how Allura would realize Lance had given her to Brett on purpose. He'd hurt her on purpose. And somehow he didn't think she would see it any other way. She'd forget that she was here on Thursday to avoid him, that she had almost left rather than donate if it meant that he would be hooking her up. All she would remember was that Lance had her folder in his hands and then given it to someone else who was probably going to stab her.

Lance swore suddenly under his breath, causing the donor in the chair, a young man named Jonathan, to startle, as though Lance had screwed something up on him.

"I'll be right back," Lance told him wearily, holding up a hand. Jonathan looked confused, but he didn't have time to say anything as Lance pivoted away from him, hurrying across the floor to where Brett was violently ripping off pieces of tape and sticking the ends to the top of the centrifuge. Good. He hadn't got to the venipuncture part yet.

"Brett," Lance joined them quietly, holding back, knowing that this was going to look psychotic and weird, but he just couldn't let this happen. Allura physically shrank into the chair at his approach, but since Brett had already secured her blood pressure cuff, she couldn't really go anywhere.

Brett turned, abruptly as usual, and now Lance had both his hands up, thinking of how he was going to do this without hurting anyone's feelings. Somehow telling Brett that he'd changed his mind about letting him punish the girl he'd fantasized about for months didn't quite seem the way to go about it.

"Lance?" Brett prompted him when he didn't say anything, studying him up and down. "You ok? Change your mind about that shot?"

Brett, you big, dumb hero. That's perfect. "Yeah, I did," Lance lied. "I'll finish up here if you wouldn't mind grabbing it for me?"

"Sure thing," Brett said, looking pleased to be of service, glad that he was helping Lance with something instead of the other way around. Lance managed a partial smile for him, sorry that he was sending him away because he didn't trust him. "Be right back."

And that's how Lance found himself alone with Allura, a little faster than he'd wanted to be. He still didn't know what he wanted to say to her. He was still hurt, still angry. It didn't help that she looked horrified and trapped, eyes following Brett desperately, as though she wanted to call him back. Lance pulled out a donor kit from the drawer on the centrifuge cart, thinking he'd just get this over with.

"Lance," Allura fumbled, starting to force some kind of conversation to banish the awkwardness of this. Hearing her talk to him made something inside his chest twitch. Her accent. The lilt in his name.

"You don't have to say anything," he told her, surprisingly terse, but if he didn't keep things tightly reined in, it was likely to get messy in a hurry. He was just here to hook her up safely. "I'll be done in a minute."

She stopped, her lips coming together in a straight, convicted line. Lance focused his attention to her arm, though he did notice her turning her head away from him. There was a tenseness in her this time; Lance could feel it in her muscles.

"Relax, Allura," he commanded. "Loosen up. I'm not going to hurt you." I came all the way over here specifically so I wouldn't be responsible for hurting you.

"Why did you send him away?" Allura asked, harshly, and Lance paused in his prep work to glare at her. You don't want him, he thought. Except she did. Her entire demeanor, her face, her arm, her drawn up knees, all told Lance that she actually did want Brett to come back. That everything was different between them now. There was no trust anymore. She had the audacity to look frightened of him.

"I'm doing you a favor," he heard himself hiss at her, furious that she didn't understand this, that she didn't understand anything about him. That he'd spent all that time reading all those books for her and she still knew nothing about who he was. Pointless.

"A favor?" She repeated, with some of her typical strength. It almost sounded like a challenge.

"Yes," he almost snapped. "Not that you deserve it."

He watched her eyes go huge before he let his gaze slide off to the floor. Don't be so bitter, he lectured himself. It's not her fault that you're a mess.

"What makes you think," she started again, but he really meant the part where she didn't have to say anything. He wasn't going to defend himself anymore. Especially since this was just like last time where Allura was making assumptions about what Lance was doing without having all the information.

"Don't," he said, unwilling to hear anything she might have to say. "Keep still. You'll feel a sting here." She clamped her mouth shut again as he inserted his needle in one smooth motion, quick and painless as usual. Instead, he took his frustration out on the centrifuge, jabbing the buttons to get her started. Then he left without looking at her again, disliking that his conscience didn't seem all that clear.

Brett caught him on his way back to the patiently waiting Jonathan, handing him the five-hour energy bottle. Lance thanked him, taking it. He still had no intention of drinking it. He sensed Brett staring at him as he walked away, but he offered no explanation about what he'd just done. In fact, he thought it would be easiest to go back on autopilot. He had less than an hour before he could go home.

He and Brett walked past each other across the floor, engaged in their various tasks. Each time Lance felt he had to give him something. So he would nod to him, tell him he was doing a good job, but please keep it slow. No need to rush. In return, Brett blossomed under the praise, took it upon himself to do the low-ranking restocking and cleaning jobs that no one really liked, and he kept up his vigilance on Lance, popping up at his elbow from time to time when Lance had truly zoned out for a minute to make sure he was doing ok.

Lance wasn't sure. Something hurt inside him but he couldn't tell if it was a physical or emotional wound. Though he suspected it had something to do with Allura and with Keith, how both of them were distancing themselves from him. It made him feel unwanted and misunderstood, and he hated it.

"So Lance, is that your girlfriend?" Brett asked him when they found themselves at the sink together, washing their hands again. Lance shook his head, more to clear it than to answer.

"No," he said, voice more bitter than he'd wanted it to sound. "She's not interested."

"You sure? She's been watching you the entire time. She looks worried about you."

"Brett," Lance began, but he had no hope of explaining the situation. There was too much. And despite how cool Brett had been this shift, how he was just such a friendly person to begin with, Lance just didn't feel like being that open with him. He was relieved to hear an alarm go off, a clotted line. He grabbed a paper towel, grateful to leave this conversation, but Brett once again stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"I'll take care of that," Brett offered. "Go talk to her."

"She doesn't want to talk to me," Lance dismissed.

"I think you've got it backwards," Brett contradicted, giving him a small shove in Allura's direction. "Go on and straighten it out. Whatever it is. Because if you slump anymore, you'll be dragging your knuckles on the ground."

Without giving Lance another chance for protest, Brett headed off to the station where the alarm was going off. Lance watched him for just a second, watched him sidle up to the cot and start pushing the buttons to get things quiet first before he started in on the problem. Lance recognized the donor – Makayla Walker, a good-natured girl who made extremely hesitant attempts to shyly practice her Spanish with Lance sometimes. Her face looked up to Brett questioningly. She'd never had a second's trouble with a donation before and obviously didn't understand what had happened. Lance hoped Brett would explain that clots just happened sometimes and that it wasn't a big deal.

Brett caught him still standing there watching, so he jerked his head over to Allura, lifting his eyebrows in a not-so-subtle command for Lance to get on with it. Lance looked across the walkway from Brett and locked eyes with Allura, who apparently had been watching him just like Brett had said. As soon as she'd been caught, Allura quickly turned away, embarrassed. There was no book on her lap today. What was that about?

Fine. Maybe this would be good. Maybe they could get everything straight, have one real and final conversation in this weird, quasi-friendship they'd kept going for months. Then maybe Lance could get some closure about her. Maybe this could be the warm up for the conversation Lance had to have with Keith later.

"Everything ok over here?" Lance began with a question he always asked her, those days when all he wanted was to have an excuse to come to her station to talk to her. Across the walkway, Brett smiled as he worked on Makayla, pleased that Lance was taking his advice.

"I don't know," Allura admitted, her voice hesitant. Her answer made Lance check the machine, her blood pressure, her color, finding them all normal. The donation was going perfectly, just like it always had for her. Whatever she wasn't sure was ok, it had nothing to do with plasma.

"Then what's up?" Lance asked her honestly. He didn't know what he was doing standing here when he knew she didn't want to see him, when she thought that he was capable and willing to lie to her. But then why was she staring at him? Not reading?

"How – how is your friend?" Allura asked, picking at an invisible piece of lint on her jeans. Lance didn't know what she meant by that. Was she checking his story, or had she changed her mind about believing him?

"He's getting better," Lance answered, a little easier now that he was speaking about Keith, about events he was sure on. "But it was rough. I ended up in the emergency room with him." He stopped short of saying the words 'he almost died.' That seemed too much to tell Allura and not enough to do it justice, so he just kept that detail to himself.

Allura licked her lips nervously, her mouth opening and closing as she searched for something to say to that. Lance didn't even know if she believed him or not, but he found it didn't matter anymore. He knew what had happened. He knew why he'd done everything he'd done last weekend. Knew he wouldn't really change anything if he could do it over again.

Lance was still waiting for what Allura would say next when a lightning strike of emergency hit the donation center. It happened so fast that it took several seconds for Lance to even register what was going on. His first clue was Allura. Her mouth dropped open and she uttered a harsh "oh!" of shock. She lifted her hand, covering her face for just a second before she began pointing across the walkway, trying to get Lance to look over there. It wasn't until Lance started turning to see what she was doing that he could hear the screaming.

Confused, Lance stared, taking in the scene at the station opposite Allura, where Brett had been clearing Makayla's line. It had changed in a dramatic way that didn't make sense at all. Brett now stood helpless, his head jerking around, trying to see in all directions at once. The alarm from the centrifuge was shrieking in cadence with Makayla, who was staring at where the needle had once been secured in her arm. Where it no longer was. Where blood seemed to be gushing out, splashing on the floor, dripping from the plastic mattress. Shit.

Lance took one more second to lock eyes with Allura, and they communicated better in that one look than they had in all the previous months of Lance trying to talk to her. In that second, he let her know that he was leaving her side, right now, that he had something to do that was important. And in that second, he saw that she understood. That she was frightened and shocked, but she understood that he needed to go.

"Out of the way," Lance directed Brett, who was too overwhelmed to be of any help here. As Brett tried to take a step backward, Lance saw what had happened. Somehow, Brett had gotten tangled in the tubing, and when he'd tried to walk away, probably too big and too fast, he'd ripped Makayla's catheter out, at the wrong angle, tearing open her vein and the skin of her arm. Damn it, Lance growled in his head, but knew better than to say anything out loud. Makayla was screaming, terrified at the blood draining out of her arm. What's worse, she'd been on a return, so her filtered blood was also draining at an alarming rate from the centrifuge, spilling messily onto the floor from the unsecured line.

"Shut off the machine!" Lance shouted at Brett, who still stood motionless, not knowing what to do. But for Lance, this was the first time all day he'd felt absolutely, perfectly awake. He ducked down to pull an absorbent pad from the bottom of the cart. Instead of throwing it on the floor, he wrapped it tight around Makayla's arm. Stop her bleeding first.

"Lift your arm," Lance directed her, no longer shouting, but keeping an authoritative clip to his words, knowing that Makayla's mind needed firm instruction as it was reeling right now. Her normally calm face was full of panic and losing color. She was almost hyperventilating, though her screams had turned to little moans of terror. By this time, other techs were swarming toward them, as many as could be spared from the other donors.

"Get her feet up," Lance told Bethany, who had closed the front desk until this could be dealt with, as protocol required. She moved immediately to do as he said.

"Lance, I'm sorry," he heard Brett beginning to apologize.

"Not now," Lance growled at him. "Go get cleaned up. Get out of the way." Someone put a hand on his knee and he realized that his other coworker, Ian, was crouched at his feet, trying to put more pads down to cover the blood on the floor to minimize the risk of slipping. Lance took a careful step to allow him to get at it before turning all his attention to Makayla.

"You're ok," he told her, hugging her blood drenched arm tight to his torso, keeping pressure on the tear, his fingers clamped down into the inside of her elbow, making sure that she wasn't using any of her own strength to keep her arm lifted. "Grab a trash can," he said urgently to Bethany because even though he was telling Makayla she was ok, her shock response was behaving otherwise. Bethany stood ready in case Makayla started throwing up as Lance tried to talk her out of it.

"Look at me, Makayla," he encouraged her, keeping calm for both of them. "It's not bad." Ian was back with warm wet towels, and Lance once again shifted out of his way so he could lay one across Makayla's forehead and across her throat. Lance paid attention to the wound under his fingers. He could no longer feel it throbbing, couldn't tell if more warm blood was pumping out of it in synch with Makayla's heartbeat. He wondered how much she'd lost. The centrifuge pulled out a pint at a time, but she'd been on a return. She might need to go to the other side of the hospital and receive a transfusion. Or maybe there was less than a pint in the machine and on the floor, though it looked like gallons. Either way, it meant that Makayla couldn't come back to the center for at least eight weeks since she'd definitely lost too many red blood cells. He hoped she wasn't counting on the funding she received to buy her groceries or something.

Lance started asking Makayla questions, easy ones. What day is it? What was her name and birthday? He started easing her into talking more. What did you do last weekend? What's your favorite class? You're doing so great; keep looking at me.

Superstar Ian brought the center's first-aid kit and settled it on the cot near Makayla's hip, then silently stood ready for whatever Lance might need him to do, taking over the trash can so Bethany could return to the front desk. Lance didn't know where Brett went.

As Makayla's breathing eased and her arm relaxed against Lance's chest, he changed topics again to ask her harder questions, monitoring her for shock with each one. Does anything hurt? Are you feeling faint or nauseated?

After a very long time, Lance felt safe to start the second part of treatment. He made sure that Makayla's feet were still resting on a pillow above her head. He had Ian bring him more warm towels to replace the ones cooling on her. This time he instructed Ian to put one over her eyes, forcing her to keep them closed. Then he began cleaning her up.

First he cut the excess off the pad, cut it into a neat square that covered the wound, having Ian help him by keeping pressure on it. It might be overkill, but he wasn't taking any chances on the bleeding starting up again. Somewhere he asked if Steve had been notified. Steve was a nine to five kind of guy, but this sort of thing required him to come in after hours. Ian said he was on his way.

Lance cleaned all the blood from Makayla's arm, washing it away, dropping antiseptic wipes into the biohazard waste bucket at his feet. Meanwhile, she lay quiet on the cot, unresisting, unmoving. He talked to her as he worked, telling her how well she was doing, telling her how impressed he was that she was so calm. He repeated over and over that she was ok, that she was just fine. When she was as clean as he could get her, he taped a fresh piece of gauze over the pad. He'd decided the best thing to do was send her over to the ER as a precaution. They could look at what was underneath, determine if the wound needed stitches or glue or maybe just a butterfly bandaid to keep it together. It was not in his job description for tonight.

Lance sat with Makayla as she came back from shock. He kept her injured arm, holding her wrist and supporting her elbow, keeping her off his scrubs, which were now soaked. Steve came in and started asking more questions, which Lance and Makayla answered back and forth. Steve called the ER to have them send some of their techs and a gurney over, but by the time they arrived, Makayla was calmly sitting up and drinking a Capri Sun. Lance told her where she was going and that it was just to be extra safe; he apologized that she wouldn't be able to donate again for eight weeks. He asked her seriously if that would cause any financial hardship for her, but she said it was ok. She thanked Lance several times, signed some forms for Steve, and then she was wheeled away.

That's when Lance noticed that Allura was still sitting in the chair opposite the scene, still watching him intently. Her machine was done, her bottle of plasma filled and finished. Lance brought it to Ian's attention that Allura could be taken off, but Ian just shrugged.

"I tried a long time ago," he confessed. "She said she didn't want me to. She said she'd wait for you and didn't care how long it took."

Lance checked with Steve, who just nodded, preoccupied with the mess he was going to have to deal with, both physically and in paperwork. Lance still didn't know where Brett was hiding. He wondered if Steve were going to fire him on the spot. Ian handed him a plastic cover, a huge tarp-like gown that went over his head, down to his wrists, and far past his hips. Another precaution since his scrubs were now contaminated by biohazard fluid. Lance removed his bloody gloves, replacing them after washing his hands again. Then he put on the cover and fresh gloves before going to see Allura. She stared at him, a new expression on her face now.

"Sorry about that," Lance apologized for something he hadn't done. "You ok?" Because sometimes watching traumatic incidents like that put people into shock too. But surely Ian would have checked her for that already. Why had she waited for him?

"That was horrible," she said, her voice far away, as if she could still see it. Lance wondered what it had looked like from her perspective, trapped to her donor chair by her own needle and blood pressure cuff. She could have closed her eyes, but somehow Lance didn't think that she had.

"Yeah," Lance agreed. "It shouldn't have happened. I don't know how many times I've told him to slow down."

This made Allura's eyes widen as something seemed to click with her. As she remembered that it had been Brett who was going to start her earlier, that Lance had traded him for her and then changed his mind about it afterward. She looked at him with a deepening understanding of the evening. Lance busied himself with disconnecting her, more pressure, more arm lifting. No lost blood here.

"That could have been me," Lance heard Allura whisper. No, he wanted to assure her. I didn't let him. I couldn't. But he had thought about it. He'd almost let Brett go ahead. Because he'd been hurt first and wanted to give it back to her, however passively. He'd been so angry at her. He was so ashamed of that now.

"That's why you –" Allura continued, staring at him with her large, beautiful eyes. They were full of fear and something else that Lance didn't have the energy to identify. He didn't think he could screw up anymore when it came to his relationship with her.

"Come on," Lance interrupted, throwing her tubes into a different biohazard bucket. "You're done." He picked up her plasma bottle, walking her over to the cashier like this was just another day. Because for him, this was just another day. He had to be prepared for things like this all the time. And he also had to be prepared for it to take him away from conversations, from people he loved. He had to prepare himself for the lifestyle he'd chosen to keep him alone, because how could he expect anyone else to just sit by the sidelines and wait for him to finish? To watch him cradle another girl's arm against his chest and just wait? Wait for him to come home, not even knowing when that would be? It wasn't fair to even ask. Not fair for Allura even though she had sat and waited for him tonight. Definitely not fair to Keith who was still trapped and waiting in Lance's apartment, thinking he'd be home by eight. Lance couldn't ask anyone to wait for him anymore.

"Lance?" Allura asked as they stopped in front of the cashier. Lance placed her bottle on the counter to be added to the others.

"Thanks for coming in," Lance told her, ending the conversation, just wanting it to be over once and for all. "And for future reference, if you don't want to see me, come in on Monday or Friday nights. That's when I'm off."

Allura blinked in surprise and embarrassment at what Lance had just said. She looked like she wanted to say something, but didn't know where to start. But Lance had no desire to continue. He was more than done. The weariness was returning now that the drama was over. Lance could feel himself starting to crash from the adrenaline rush. It was going to be evident very soon how much it had taken out of him. Not that he'd had a whole lot to start with. He looked at the clock, realizing his shift had been over for twenty minutes, the center was in closing mode, but he knew that he couldn't go home yet. He had to clean every nook and cranny of Makayla's centrifuge. Mop and disinfect the floor, the mattress, every bolt and joint of the cot. Steve would want him and Brett to debrief in his office after that. It would take hours. He felt Allura's eyes on him as he turned away from her, but there was no longer anything to say. Lance felt his emotions shut down, autopilot returning as he went down on his knees to start gathering up the pads Ian had set on the floor. He didn't see Allura leave.

Honestly, he didn't see much of anything. Just red splatters right in front of his eyes that he methodically wiped clean with bleach. People walked behind him for a little while, the last of the donors finishing up and leaving the center for the night. The techs cleaned the other stations with much less precision and then they too were gone. Steve brought Lance and Brett into his office as expected and asked them question after question about the incident and the protocol that had been followed afterward, filling out form after never-ending form. Lance could barely keep his eyes open at this point, even though he knew it was important.

"Lance," Steve said, for what could have been a second or third time according to the tone he used when he said it. Lance shook his head clear, trying to focus on what was going on. "You doing all right? Do you need a ride?"

"No," Lance said automatically without thinking much about it. Not really capable of thinking at all at this point. Whenever he closed his eyes, he could still see the blood that he'd cleaned, the splashes on the floor, on the mattress, on the centrifuge. He hoped Makayla was ok. There had been so much.

"You know what? I take it back. I'm giving you a ride; let's go," Steve switched his question to a command, and Lance didn't fight about that either. He got his coat and bag and stood waiting while Steve said some last words to Brett. Something about being put on probation. Something about working the front desk until further notice. Which meant that he wasn't fired. For some reason, even after everything that had happened, Lance was glad about that. Brett wasn't a bad guy. He could use another chance.

Steve had to pull on Lance to get him moving again, and Lance thought he was still asking questions, but it was like it took too much effort to translate English anymore, so Lance didn't bother answering. He closed his eyes and saw Allura pull her hair back behind her. The blood splattered on the white floor. He blinked and realized that Steve was shaking his shoulder, that he'd rested his head against the cold of the car window. That he was sitting in Steve's front seat and that the Stony Island apartment building was just outside. He didn't remember telling Steve where he lived. Didn't remember ever getting into the car.

"Get some rest, Lance," Steve instructed, watching him worriedly. "You did a great job today; I'm really glad you were there, but if you need some time, take it." There was a pause where Lance thought he should probably be doing something but couldn't pin down what it should be. "Lance, I can't tell if you're like this because of what happened tonight or if something else is wrong. You've been sort of off all week, but if you need something, you can talk to me, all right?" Another pause where Lance realized he wasn't moving yet; he was just sitting here staring at nothing, not responding. He heard Steve sigh, letting it go. "You need help getting inside?"

It was so weird to be on the receiving end of these questions. Especially when Lance knew there wasn't anything wrong with him. But he couldn't make the effort to tell Steve that. He just shook his head. He thought he mumbled a thank you for the ride, but he wasn't sure. He thought Steve told him one more time that if he needed another day off to just email him. Then he blinked again and he was standing in front of his apartment door. Thank you, autopilot.

He stood there looking at the doorknob, not bothering to reach for it because he was concentrating too hard on the voices he could hear on the inside. He could distinguish Hunk easily, the comforting rumble. Also Pidge. Then a raised voice, one he didn't know so well. At least, not when it was strong like this. Keith?

"I thought he got off at eight? It's after eleven; how long could it possibly take?"

"Keith, calm down. He's late sometimes. There was an incident at the center. He's fine, and he'll be home when everything's taken care of." That was Hunk.

"What kind of an incident? What's that mean? What exactly did they say?"

"They can't tell us stuff like that; it's illegal." Pidge now in all her practicality. Lance smiled, barely registering that they were talking about him.

"I'm going to go look for him."

The apartment door was torn open before Lance had caught up with what was going on. Had they called the donation center looking for him? When? Who had they talked to? He felt a little electric jolt go through him at the sudden change in the door's position, at the light pouring out into the hallway, at Keith standing there with his coat half on. Lance blinked.

"Oh my God," Keith exclaimed, startled to find Lance just standing there outside the door. He shrugged off his coat in a smooth motion, dropping it back onto the camp chair and then immediately reaching for Lance. "How long have you been . . . What the hell happened?"

What did happen? Lance tried to focus, tried to keep his balance as Keith dragged him through the door. He registered movement, lots of movement, too much movement all around him. Hunk and Pidge on the periphery and Keith's hands on his coat sleeves. Everything was going extremely fast. Lance tried opening his mouth to answer because he thought he remembered being asked a question, but only a strangled half-laugh came out and then didn't stop because everything was so bright in here and moving and how was he supposed to answer a question when he couldn't remember what it was. What could he possibly tell them? He had no energy left.

"What are you – are you laughing or crying?" Keith asked him, shaking him a little. Lance felt his knees quaking and decided to just drop onto the floor. That would make it easier to take his shoes off anyway. He focused his gaze onto the couch, the afghan on the back of it. It looked suddenly and surprisingly comfortable. "Are you drunk?" Keith demanded, and that made Lance laugh harder, doubling over on the floor so forcefully that Keith had to let him go.

"Lance doesn't drink," Pidge answered for him from where she stood by the table, gauging whether it would be beneficial for her to come closer or just give Lance some space. "He gets like this when he's exhausted."

"You damn idiot," Keith snarled at him, which helped Lance stop with the crazed giggling, made him realize that it was Keith's hands, not his, that were undoing his shoelaces for him. That's ironic, he thought mildly, from very far away and long ago. Keith pulled off his shoes and started on his coat, tugging his backpack off his shoulders.

"Stop," Lance told him, ineffectively brushing at his hands. "Don't get so worked up." Wow, his words did sound slurred. No wonder Keith thought he'd been drinking. But still, he needed to get it together. Keith was getting upset, and Lance remembered that wasn't a good thing. "Your heart –"

"To hell with my heart; you're covered in_ blood!_" Keith's tone picked up in speed and ferocity as he succeeded in undoing Lance's coat, revealing the plastic gown cover and the stains splashed all over him.

"What?" Hunk's suddenly high-pitched voice from somewhere behind Keith's shoulder. "Lance, what?"

Something urgent pricked at Lance, enough to get him back on his feet. Something about Hunk. Something about Hunk and blood.

"It's ok," Lance soothed, trying to focus on Hunk, who was staring at him with his mouth open, completely freaked out. "Hunk, chill. It's not mine." Not that it made any difference. Keith somehow succeeded in relieving Lance of his coat, even as he started walking away from him, toward Hunk.

"Lance, stop," Pidge intercepted on Hunk's behalf, pausing Lance for a second as he considered her. Didn't she know he was just trying to help? Hunk's face was changing color as Lance came closer to him, and with the next step, he turned away from Lance completely, headed for the kitchen sink, making desperate little gagging sounds.

"Hunk, it's ok," Lance entreated him again while Pidge followed Hunk, putting her hands on his back as he leaned over the sink.

"Lance, back off!" She shrieked at him, which did make him pause, suddenly hurt. What was going on? "You can't help right now; you are literally covered in the problem. Keith, get him out of here, will you? Get him cleaned up."

"Right," Keith said from somewhere behind Lance, his agreement turning tangible as he firmly grabbed on to Lance. "Come on."

Still confused, Lance allowed Keith to drag him away, then began walking himself to the bathroom. Keith might be talking to him, but all he noticed was the heat from Keith's hand on his shoulder. It felt nice. It reminded him that he needed to tell Keith something. That he had to explain that he didn't have to wait here for Lance anymore. He could go because it wasn't fair.

"What the hell is this thing?" Keith spoke to himself as he stripped the plastic cover from Lance once they were in the bathroom. For some reason, that question got through to Lance, and he found himself rambling in response.

"It's a biohazard protection cover, but I probably didn't need it. Makayla is like the purest girl ever, I think she's a Mormon or something, so I'm more than one hundred percent sure that her blood is clean. Still, it helped not get blood on my coat, so maybe it's good that I had it. Ian gave it to me."

Keith was staring at him with a strange expression on his face. Like he wasn't quite sure what to do with all the random information Lance had just given him. He bundled the plastic into his hands, compressing it as small as it would go before ramming it into the trash can by the sink. Lance noted that they'd have to take it outside before Hunk came in, though he couldn't tell if it had blood on it or not.

"Take that off," Keith directed, gesturing at Lance's scrub top. Then he paused, leaning closer to Lance. "Shit, it's in your hair. Do you think you can handle a shower on your own?"

"Sure," Lance agreed, slowly looking over to the tub. A shower sounded wonderful, because now that Keith mentioned it, Lance felt cold all over.

"Lance!" Lance blinked, wondering why things kept skipping. Keith had moved very suddenly. He wasn't standing in front of Lance anymore; he was kneeling. He was on the floor because Lance was sitting down. Lance didn't remember sitting down. Keith had both of Lance's shoulders under his hands. He was staring at him. "What's wrong with you?"

"I'm . . cold," was the only thing Lance could think of to say, the only thing he could think about now that Keith had brought it up. "I'm going to get warm in the shower." He moved toward it, completely numb, and started the water, hardly noticing Keith still at his side.

"Maybe don't stand up in there," Keith suggested worriedly. "I'll get you some clean clothes."

"Thanks," Lance said absently, focusing on the water. Something was nagging at him, telling him that he was being too casual about what was going on, but he didn't know how to fix it. He just wanted to get out of his sticky, bloody scrubs and into the water. He wanted to be clean and warm. "My room is down the hall."

"God, Lance, I know. Are you ok?"

"Yeah," Lance assured. Keith hesitated at the door, but eventually pulled it shut, heading down the hall. Lance stepped into the shower with his clothes on, feeling the fabric vacuum to his skin immediately. When the water running down the drain turned bloody, Lance's mind revived a bit and started putting itself back together. The events from the day, from the donation center, came back to him, not in order at first, but by the time he'd peeled the scrubs off, he thought he had everything sorted. Poor Hunk; Lance couldn't believe he'd tried to chase after him like that. He hoped Pidge remembered what to do.

He began scrubbing. First his hair and then his face, rubbing everything as hard as he could, the last blood cleanup of the night. He had to wake up, stay awake for a little longer. He had to tell his friends what happened to him so they'd know he wasn't losing his mind. Had he really just told Keith how to find his bedroom? That was funny. And really horrifying. He watched the blood running down the drain.

That's when his head started changing the facts. It wasn't Makayla bleeding anymore; it was Allura. Because Lance had been petty and angry and just handed her folder to Brett, even though he knew what could happen. He'd just let Brett rip into her.

No, he hadn't. He didn't do that; he'd changed his mind at the last minute. Even though she hadn't been happy about it. He'd done her a favor. She was mad that he'd tried to protect her. There was blood all over the floor. Lance stopped the water, drying off. The roughness of the towel hurt his back. His whole left arm ached as he moved the towel over his body. He'd have to clean everything up before Hunk came in. He pulled his soaking wet scrubs out of the bathtub, transferring them to the sink. He wrapped the towel around his waist and then stood with both hands clinging to the sides of the sink basin. The way Hunk was doing in the kitchen right now. Or maybe he wasn't. Maybe Pidge remembered what to do. Was there blood in the kitchen? Had Lance gotten Allura's blood in the kitchen?

No, Makayla. Not Allura. She was fine; she was pissed, but she had waited. But he couldn't ask Keith to do that anymore. His mind was skipping again, and he held tighter to the sink as his hands started shaking. This was familiar, but bad, but not unexpected. His clothes were staining the sink. He needed to scrub them clean. What was that noise? How did he make his hands stop shaking? He couldn't remember, though he'd thought he once knew how to do it. There was a trick. Portable, mindless. How did it go?

"Lance? I've got your clothes." Lance turned his head slowly toward the door because it was saying his name. No, a gorgeous, raven-haired boy coming through the door was saying his name. Keith. It was Keith. The wolf pup with the colorless eyes who slept in his bed but didn't sleep with him, which was something that Lance wanted but also didn't want to want. He looked so good, but so scared entering the room. He rushed at Lance, confusing him all over again. Why did he have to move so fast? "Shit, you _are _sick. I knew it! Come on; sit down. Damn it; this is my fault."

The only reason Lance didn't fall onto the toilet lid was because Keith eased him down onto it. Lance stared at him silently, amazed at how animated he was. How beautiful, even though he was mad. He fussed over Lance, exclaiming over each discovery. Keith hadn't seen Lance with his shirt off for a few days.

"Fuck, Lance, your back. I thought you were taking care of it. And what . .my God, are you trying to kill yourself . what happened to your arm?" Keith was on his knees again, and he had stretched Lance's arm out into the light to inspect it better. Lance dragged his eyes over to it too; he hadn't really seen it yet. Hadn't seen what Brett had done to him, but understood Keith's reaction when he saw the bruise that wrapped around his forearm, almost to his wrist, an enormous aching internal hemorrhage. The damage was sort of impressive, really. It must have been because he'd had to get that huge man with chest pains into the ambulance that night. No heavy lifting after donation. How many times had he said that? How bad would Allura's arm bruise? Would she be able to move it tomorrow?

"Oh shit, you are shaking so bad. I'll . . . I'll get Hunk. We'll get you out of here."

Lance's mind wrapped around the point where Keith was going to bring Hunk and Pidge in to help him. That they were going to see him falling to pieces like this. Somehow that idea lit up the very last of his energy. He didn't want them in here. He'd done enough damage already tonight. He grabbed on to Keith to stop him from leaving or calling out, forcing Keith's attention back on him.

"I'm not sick," Lance told him, even as he tried to think of how many words it was going to take to explain this. Or how many he could leave out. He closed his eyes, saw splashes of blood behind his lids. Not Allura's. Makayla's and both of them are fine. It's not your fault.

"Pretty sure I said the same damn thing," Keith quipped, but he did return to Lance's side. "Where did you put that tube of antibiotic the doctor gave you?" Lance winced, though what he was trying to do was smile reassuringly. He reached for his clothes, certain that Keith would take him more seriously if he weren't wearing just a towel, but Keith wouldn't hand them over until after he'd applied more ointment to the infected and inflamed wound on Lance's back.

Lance tried to explain as Keith worked over him, faltering badly on the details. He backed up several times, overlapping sometimes the events from tonight with stuff that happened on the ambulance run. He couldn't seem to put details together very well; he could tell he was all over the place, but he kept losing his train of thought. He told Keith about delayed panic response and Dr. Delacroix and knitting with pencils. Then he explained about Brett and how he did venipunctures as though he were plunging vaccines into livestock or something.

"And I almost let him," Lance half moaned in regret as Keith took both of his hands, trying to still them. "I was so mad; I was going to let him touch her. I'm the only one who should ever touch her."

"Lance, you aren't making any sense," Keith told him gently. "Who are you talking about?"

"Keith? What are you guys still doing in here?" Pidge asked as she came up behind him, taking stock of the situation. Lance jerked his hands away from Keith, tugging the sleeves of his shirt over his fingers and tucking them under his arms. Keith tilted his head at him.

"Is Hunk ok?" Lance asked, watching Pidge's face soften at the question.

"He's fine. I got his head down and did everything the way you told me to. What the hell were you thinking, chasing him down like that?"

Keith blocked Pidge from getting any closer to Lance, putting a hand up to stop her from lecturing Lance anymore, protecting him. She raised an eyebrow at Keith, not taking her eyes off Lance.

"I think he's sick. He must have caught it from me," Keith volunteered, which sharpened Pidge's expression again. "If Hunk's ok, can he help me get him to his room?"

"I'm not," Lance protested again. Couldn't they tell? Pidge came closer, placing one cool hand on his face and her arm around his shoulders. He leaned into her automatically, feeling the room shift out from under him as he rested his head against the softness of her hoodie.

"I don't think he has a fever," Pidge said reassuringly to Keith. "We'll check again after we get out of this hot room, but I say, he gets like this sometimes when he's been pushing himself too hard. He just needs some sleep." She bent down to catch Lance's eyes, focusing him. "Real sleep."

Pidge continued talking as she stood up, motioning for Keith to help Lance stand as well. "I answered your phone for you Lance," she said, though Lance didn't know if he was picking up all the words. Sometimes it seemed that a few got lost in the middle as Keith slipped an arm around Lance's waist. He was so warm. "Your supervisor called to make sure you got in all right. I got a little information out of him pretending to be your sister, so if that ever comes up, that's what we are now. Got it? Oh, never mind, you can't even hear me, can you? I'll have to tell you later." No, I got it, Lance thought but didn't say. He was paying too much attention to walking.

"Did he tell you what happened?" Keith asked as they made their way down the hall.

"He couldn't give me everything, but yeah. Basically Lance is a hero, but we knew that already. Someone else at the center screwed up really bad and ended up accidentally ripping a needle out of a donor. Tore it right out of her arm. Lance, you still with us? He wanted me to tell you that she was cleared to leave the ER a little while ago. Her roommate came and picked her up. She hadn't lost all that much blood. She needed six stitches, but no transfusion or anything. Everyone says you were perfect."

"I shouldn't have let him touch her," Lance murmured, lying down on his own bed for the first time in a week. His pillow smelled like Keith. "But she wasn't supposed to be there. It's Thursday. She came on Thursday because she didn't want to see me, so I let him take her. No one should touch her but me."

"Wait, Lance, what are you saying?" Pidge was close to his face. Keith was pulling his quilt over him. It felt so good. "Are you talking about _your_ girl? She was there? Was that who got hurt tonight?"

Blood all over the floor, the mattress, his sheets. "I need to clean up the blood before Hunk can come in," Lance repeated.

"I'll take care of it," Keith said.

"Lance, buddy?" Hunk's voice, but Lance had his eyes closed and couldn't see anyone anymore. "Did you eat anything? Are you hungry?"

"I think he's already asleep, Hunk. He'll get something in the morning. Now where's his med bag? He keeps like three thermometers in there."

"Keith?" Lance called, and heat was suddenly all over him. He could feel it near his abdomen, his shoulder, circling his wrist. "I can't take your bed."

"It's _your_ bed, and you need it more than I do."

"Got it. Ok, let's just make sure." Something cold and metallic swept across Lance's forehead. Pidge taking his temperature. "Yeah, he's normal, no fever. See? Just tired. Come on, guys, let him rest. You're not going to get anything rational out of him before tomorrow."

Lights dimmed, a quiet darkness settling into the room. Lance's muscles melted into the bed, the ache in them not leaving but changing in a way that was a relief. The warmth didn't move, neither did the pressure Lance felt on the covers, the place near his hip. The circle around his wrist.

"Keith? Come on, man; we'll figure out somewhere for you to get some sleep too."

"Don't worry about it. You guys have been way too nice to me already. I'll stay here for a while and watch him. Oh, but Pidge? He left his scrubs in the sink so be careful. I'll get the blood out of them soon."

"Thanks, Keith."

Lance tried talking to them. Tried to say he'd take care of his own scrubs; no one had to clean up the mess but him. He tried asking Keith how he knew how to get blood out of clothes. Tried telling them all that he was fine.

"Shhh," Keith's voice in the dark. "Stop trying to talk, Lance; I can't understand anything you're trying to say. Why can't you just relax, huh?"

Because he was in the wrong bed. And Keith was so much stronger now, better. And if Lance fell asleep, he might wake up in a world that didn't have Keith in it anymore. Or Allura. He'd wake up in a different place, and he wasn't ready. He wanted to hold on to this a little longer. Even though it wasn't fair. But none of those words made it past his lips. The only thing he thought he said was something that he remembered Krolia saying to Keith.

"Don't disappear." He wasn't sure if he said it out loud or not until Keith answered him.

"I won't if you won't."

**Author's Note: How is everyone doing, by the way? Does everyone love exhausted Lance as much as I do? Though he's hard to write, all over the place and stream of consciousness. Poor kid. If you have a second, I'd love to hear from you.**


	27. Degrees of Separation

**Author's Note: I'm so excited for this chapter. Intrigue. Drama. Frustration. And . . something I've been laying hints for since the very first chapter. I can't tell you how satisfying it is to finally put it out there. I want you all to be momentarily shocked and then go, "oh yeah, I should have known." **

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: Degrees of Separation**

The Friday Lance woke to was almost completely unchanged from the Friday before. It was quiet; he was alone. But everything was different now. At first, all Lance could do was cuddle under his quilt, staring at the sunlight peeking in from between the blinds, making connections. It was a lengthy process starting with how he couldn't really feel his body since it seemed to have melted deliciously into his mattress. He'd forgotten what it felt like to be comfortable and rested. Flipping over, Lance hugged his pillow, shoving his face deep into it and inhaling . . . Keith. His pillow still smelled like Keith. Which reminded him.

Where was Keith? Where had he slept? Because all the options in the apartment that weren't Lance's bed were awful. Lance knew. He'd tried them all. And even though waking up alone in his room was actually normal, it filled Lance with dread. He wasn't supposed to be waking up alone here. He _knew_ if he fell asleep that Keith would leave. Lance threw off the quilt, searching his room for Keith's duffel bag. He wasn't surprised, though he was disappointed, to see that it was gone. He thought he remembered Keith promising not to disappear. So much for that. This certainly looked like disappearing, though apparently not without a trace.

Getting up and dressed in new scrubs brought to Lance's attention all the other differences in the room besides Keith's missing bag. Lance's backpack was sitting on the desk. His scrubs from last night were draped over his chair, drying and spotless. Keith really did know how to get blood stains out. Lance could also now smell the coffee brewing; Keith must have put that together last night too.

Lance paused, returning to sit on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, coming to terms with last night. There wasn't much to work with, only a few images and sensations. Blood down the drain. Disjointed voices. Heat. Lance groaned. He'd been so out of it. How embarrassing. No wonder Keith left.

His phone chirped from his desk, plugged in and fully charged. Another errand Lance hadn't done that Keith must have. But why was Lance receiving texts; it was still pretty early. Or maybe it wasn't. Lance wasn't even sure what time it was. Overcome with curiosity, Lance stood up to check both the time and the text.

I didn't disappear. Go back to SLEEP.

Now Lance had the phone in both hands. Keith. How did he know that Lance had woken up? The timing was ridiculous. Maybe he was still here somewhere? Maybe he had slept on the couch? As Lance made his way through the apartment, he didn't find Keith, but he did see that he had certainly left his mark on the place. The scrubs on Lance's chair was just the beginning of what Keith had done while Lance slept.

Lance's coat and shoes had been picked up and set out neatly on the camp chair and entrance rug. Keith's medication was gone from the kitchen counter along with the rest of the Gatorade from the fridge. The antibiotic ointment was sitting on top of the coffeemaker, an obvious indication that Keith meant for Lance to take care of his back before drinking any. But for that, Lance would need help; he just couldn't reach. He looked at his phone again, at the text Keith had sent him a few minutes ago, and started typing a response, then decided he had too much to say and actually dialed his number instead. Though there wasn't much point. Just like every other time Lance had tried to contact Keith by phone, there was no answer.

Where are you? Lance texted, getting a little frustrated. He had way more questions than that, but he figured he'd just start with one. He wanted to ask him why he'd left, where he spent the night, if he was ok, but that seemed a little desperate and crazy. And Keith had already seen way too much crazy from Lance lately. Keith had programmed Lance not to expect an answer right away when he texted, but Lance thought things might be different now, so he sat there at the table with his coffee, just staring at the phone.

He was still sitting there when Hunk joined him.

"Hey, Lance, you're up. How'd you sleep?" Lance's roommate also helped himself to Keith's coffee, pulling up the other chair and looking over Lance with friendly interest. His open face free of judgment, just sincere one-hundred-percent Hunk.

"Hunk, I am so sorry," Lance apologized, remembering coming home last night drenched in Hunk's kryptonite. "I was trying to help you yesterday if you can believe it."

"No sweat. At least you're back to speaking in complete sentences," Hunk dismissed, absently picking up the antibiotic that Lance had brought with him to the table. "Keith says I'm supposed to help you with this. And you could have asked me earlier, you know."

Lance swallowed what he'd been going to say. I didn't want to put anyone out, and it's ok because I don't really need it. But he'd already tried ignoring this, and that wasn't going all that well for him, so obviously the best way to not have to deal with it anymore was to hurry up and deal with it. But then again.

"How?" Lance asked, trying to figure out how Hunk could even look at the wound without getting all woozy and weird again. "Apparently, I'm a mess."

"I'll be quick," Hunk said, casual. Like it was no problem. "Let me see."

Lance groaned, mostly for show, and slipped his scrub top up around his shoulders, leaning forward over the table to give Hunk easy access. Hunk sort of whistled through his teeth, then it seemed he held his breath, proving good on his word as he hurriedly began applying antibiotic while Lance did his best not to squirm under his hands. The ointment was unexpectedly freezing, and Hunk didn't do it the same way Keith did. Though Lance knew his roommate was being gentle, it didn't feel that way. He suspected that Hunk wasn't actually looking at what he was doing. It was more like Hunk was applying the antibiotic the same way as he would sunscreen, covering Lance's entire back so he wouldn't have to look. Lance guessed it was effective. As Hunk worked, Lance tried to distract them both, finding a good opportunity when he saw the radio on the table. It looked different than before, upgraded.

"Is this almost finished?" Lance asked, refocusing Hunk's mental awareness to something that wasn't his scraped up, infected back. "It looks like you did more stuff to it."

"I think it's done," Hunk mused, his voice still strong. Maybe this chat was working. Or maybe he had his eyes closed, who knew? "Guess we'll find out tomorrow. We worked on it quite a bit yesterday while we were waiting for you. Keith put the new dial in."

Lance immediately turned the radio so he could see the dial. It wasn't elegant by any means, but it did look complicated. Huh. Getting blood stains out of clothes, making coffee, engineering dialing mechanisms on amateur radios. Keith was a man of many, and rather varied, talents.

"I didn't know Keith could do that," Lance commented, staring at his handiwork without fully comprehending how it was done.

"Oh yeah. It's completely different now that he can sit up for more than five minutes at a time," Hunk answered. "He's actually a pretty cool guy. Kind of broody, but cool."

"Too bad he left," Lance huffed, unable to hide his disappointment about it.

"Dude, it's not like he's gone forever," Hunk countered, tugging down Lance's shirt, successfully finished with the medicine without incident. Thank goodness. "It'll probably be like with Pidge, you know, in and out. I invited him and Shiro over for dinner tonight and tomorrow, and you'll see him at class, right?" Lance jerked upright. That's right! He had to get to English.

"Holy crow! Class! What time is it?" How could Lance have been sitting there staring morosely at his phone for so long and not have a clue about the time? He snatched it up again. Seven thirty. He still had about fifteen minutes before he had to leave, but it made Lance think about something else. "Hunk, what are you doing up so early? Again?" Other than making me think I'm completely late?

But it was becoming a thing, starting last week when he'd gotten up specifically to ask about groceries and Lance's date with Allura. Before last Friday, Lance almost never saw Hunk on a weekday morning unless he'd stayed up all the night before. Now it was almost every day. For a second, Hunk looked like he'd been caught doing something wrong, all wide eyed and fumbling for an answer. He settled himself quickly, but not before Lance had noticed.

"I'm trying to get back into a routine," Hunk said, almost completely innocent, as though his typical routine had ever started before ten. He lasted in that lie for about five seconds before he folded as soon as Lance raised an eyebrow. "But to be honest, Keith asked me to make sure you were ok. I'm not supposed to let you leave until you've had enough rest."

Lance somehow found this more frustrating than endearing. "Oh yeah? He asked you to babysit me? What else did Keith say? And where is he? How come he's not here? What happened after I fell asleep?"

"Come on, don't be mad," Hunk soothed, still cool and relaxed at the table. "I was going to do it before he talked to me about it. We were all getting worried. You've been killing yourself ever since Keith got here. I tried to get him to stay, but he said he didn't want to be in our way anymore, and we were kind of out of beds. I think it bothered him to see what he was doing to you."

"What?" Lance interrupted. "He's not responsible for that." That was the weeknight ambulance run more than anything. Staying three hours after closing time at the center didn't help much either.

"You can tell him next time you see him," Hunk returned smoothly. "Maybe it'll mean something coming from you, but Pidge and I weren't getting anywhere. Can't really blame him; you should have seen yourself last night."

Lance scowled. So much of what had knocked him flat last night had nothing to do with Keith.

"So he didn't stay here?" Lance moved on. The only details he wanted from last night were no longer about him.

"No. Shiro came and took him back to his place."

"They were supposed to wait for me to do that," Lance complained, not liking it, knowing that Shiro had been impatient about taking Keith away. He also knew that he was being selfish trying to keep Keith here, but he was hoping for a little more time to find some sort of balance. Joint custody?

"Bro, you haven't been home, so you haven't had a chance to see, but Keith? He's fine. His fever broke, what, Monday? He's been ready to go for a while. And your face says that you knew that already."

"Yeah, fine," Lance moped. Hunk actually rolled his eyes, making Lance want to take a jab at him about how much time he spent with Pidge if that sort of thing were rubbing off on him. Remembering what Lance had done to him last night made him swallow and take it. It wasn't like Hunk didn't have a point.

"Anyway, Pidge and I were wondering," Hunk changed the subject. "You were all over the place yesterday, but it seemed like you said it was Allura who got hurt at the center? Is that what happened?"

"No," Lance corrected his own ranting, remembering how his own brain kept trying to make it Allura the one who had been bleeding in his arms. "It was someone else. Her name is Makayla. I know her, but you guys don't. Allura was there, though."

"On Thursday?" Hunk mused from behind his coffee mug.

"She switched days to avoid me," Lance admitted bitterly, going over the rest of the details quickly, both because he had to go soon and because he didn't want to think about it anymore. What kind of girl was she anyway if one cancelation made this much of a mess?

"Wow, that's cold," Hunk said, pondering what Lance had told him. "Sorry, man."

"It doesn't matter," Lance said, as if it were true. As if it didn't still hurt his feelings. Allura going out of her way to avoid him. Keith vanishing before Lance woke up. All that embarrassing crap that happened last night when Lance was too tired to make coherent sentences. It smacked hard into Lance's soul that he didn't appear to be desirable to anyone but Genevieve down the hall. And even that might have been something Pidge had told him in the moment to make him feel better. Maybe him being single had nothing to do with his schedule at all. Maybe it was just him.

"Lance? You ok? Why don't you go lie down? Catch up on sleep?" Hunk broke into Lance's self-piteous thoughts, jerking him into motion again.

"No, I'm headed out. Class starts at eight and my shift starts right after," Lance explained as he headed toward his room for his backpack. "I'll be back a little after noon like always."

"Keith wanted you to say here," Hunk protested.

"Well he's not here to stop me, is he?" Lance shot back, dropping his bag near the door so he could put on his winter gear. "He told me he wasn't going to disappear."

Lance leaned over the camp chair, fighting with his coat zipper, angry and hurt about so many different things. Even if he wanted to, he'd never get back to sleep now. He felt Hunk's eyes on him, soft, questioning, deciding on the words of comfort that would work best for Lance. But Lance didn't want to be pacified. He wanted to be distracted. Which meant movement. Which meant getting out of here.

"Lance, what's up? It's not like you're never going to see him again."

Except that was exactly what Lance was afraid of. Shiro had come and taken Keith home with him. Home to McKinley Park. Lance didn't even know where that was, and Keith never answered his phone. But even if he did come back. Even if he and Shiro came over for dinner tonight just like Hunk had asked them to, it was going to be different. Keith didn't need Lance anymore. So yeah, Lance might see Keith again, might even see him often, but he would never see him the same way. Or see him the way he wanted to.

"I've got to go, Hunk. I don't want to be late," Lance said in parting, refusing to be comforted by Hunk's words. He just didn't understand what was happening here. Not with Keith. Not with Allura. He had no idea how Lance's world was turning into such a lonely place and he wasn't even sure how to fix it.

"Whatever, I'm not your mom, but if you come home again like you did last night, there will be an intervention," Hunk said, shaking his head from his place at the table, surrounded by his familiar wires and radio pieces. Lance remembered as he walked down the hall that it was his birthday tomorrow. Pidge was going to take him to the Museum or somewhere else appropriately geeky and time-consuming while Lance made dinner and baked a cake. He'd have to get his emotions together by then. It wasn't fair to Hunk for Lance to be moody like this, especially after all he'd done to help Lance lately. Tomorrow, Lance was going to be happy. It's not like there wasn't plenty to be happy about. Lance had great friends – Hunk and Pidge. He was going to talk to his family on Sunday. He would have pictures to send them of the party. Of Hunk receiving the birthday gift that his mother had mailed to him. His mother was ok for now. Keith was healed and free and honestly, Lance had a lot going for him. Things he needed to stop taking for granted.

He tried. All the walk to English class Lance did nothing but list things he was grateful for. The cold, icy path didn't make the list, but there was so much else that did. He was even starting to feel a little bit better, the crisp air clearing the rest of the fatigue from his head, the sharpness of it fresh in his lungs. He snapped a couple photos of the gothic architecture of the campus in the snow to send to his family. He smiled as he thought of what their reactions might be, almost at peace as he entered the classroom.

But then Keith didn't come again. The lesson was not in any way interesting, and not just because Lance was distracted as he continually looked behind him toward the door just in case Keith came in late as he had last Friday. Lance had purposefully sat in the back row, keeping the seat on the end open, but no one came to claim it. It wasn't true, or at least Lance didn't know that it was true, but it felt like Allura all over again. It felt like Keith was avoiding him.

Lance took out his phone again after class, rereading the last text Keith had sent to him this morning. I didn't disappear. But then what was he doing? The logical part of Lance supplied him with many answers to this question. Maybe he wasn't finished with the paperwork with Krolia yet. Maybe he and Shiro were still finalizing things. Maybe they were out buying Keith an actual bed since he was officially moving in. Maybe Keith still wasn't feeling fully recovered and had decided to stick to Shiro's apartment today. There were plenty of valid reasons for him to be missing but not gone, but Lance's heart picked the one that hurt the most. The one where Keith wasn't thinking about him at all, or worse, didn't want to see him.

Pidge called as Lance walked from class to the donation center, her timing absolutely perfect, like she had a tracking device on him or something. For all Lance knew, she actually might. She wanted to check up on him too, make sure he had gotten enough rest. She asked a few random questions as though she were testing his ability to switch from thought to thought, checking his mental sharpness. They spoke briefly of Saturday and what would happen and how many people Lance should expect to feed at what time. Pidge also asked about Allura, so Lance had to explain all over again about how she'd switched her day. And then he found himself once again headed through the door of the donation center where he had to put away his phone. No new messages. I didn't disappear.

"Sure you didn't," Lance muttered bitterly to himself.

Steve met him less than two minutes after he'd walked in, looking surprised to see him, a little bit anxious. He forced Lance to look him in the eye and asked him questions, more testing of his lucidity. Lance didn't blame him. Steve didn't look like he could handle more emergency paperwork caused by an employee mistake.

But Lance was good in here. This was his space. He knew every inch, every button. He may not have been as chatty as normal with the donors today, but it wasn't because he was tired. It may have been an effort to smile, to be casual, but he did everything correctly, as usual. So it caught him off guard when Steve met him at the cashier's window just as he'd finished escorting someone there.

"Why don't you go ahead and clock out, Lance?" Steve invited pleasantly, but it put Lance off guard. Why would Steve want him to leave early? It wasn't extremely early, but still. Was he doing something wrong that he hadn't noticed? Noticing his concern, Steve went on. "Your roommate is up front waiting to pick you up."

"My roommate?" Lance checked, not understanding why Hunk would do something like that. He'd never come to get Lance before. Was this more babysitting? Because Lance was totally fine now and didn't need it.

"He said he'd wait, but you've put in more than enough hours thanks to yesterday, and it's pretty slow. It's ok for you to leave now. I'll see you on Monday."

Distrustful and puzzled, Lance watched while Steve returned to his office. He didn't think he wanted to leave yet, not if this had anything to do with the intervention Hunk had threatened him with earlier. Without going to retrieve his things, Lance marched out to the front desk, intent on explaining to Hunk, with as much force as necessary to get his point across, that he didn't need to be picked up and that he was going to finish his shift. He only had a half hour left anyway; it wasn't going to break him to work another thirty minutes.

But then he stopped short in the doorway, as he had last night when Allura had turned up outside of her normal day. Someone else was in the waiting room that Lance hadn't expected to see. Only it wasn't Hunk, or Allura. This time it was Keith.

He stood near the entrance, hands in his coat pockets, leaning against the wall and staring outside, an apprentice-in-training for the kind of stillness that Shiro had mastered. He wore a slouchy charcoal-colored knit hat today, and one of his three pairs of black jeans. And Lance's hoodie, which was too big for both of them so the hem ended almost mid-thigh on Keith. It had been a while since Lance had seen Keith in daylight. He looked so mesmerizingly beautiful that Lance wondered how it was possible for him not to have noticed Keith before last Friday. Not only was Lance stunned by how good Keith looked, he also had to take a second to reconcile that he was actually here, physically in the waiting room. He hadn't disappeared. Lance decided to copy Keith by placing his own hands into his lab coat pockets in order to appear unrattled by having Keith suddenly showing up at his job. He took a deep breath and began crossing the waiting room floor.

"Keith?" He called out before he got too close. He had to speak first, his nerves wouldn't allow him not to draw Keith's attention, though he wasn't sure what to say beyond Keith's name. That wasn't quite true; he had a million questions, just none that he felt comfortable asking. What was Keith doing here? Where had he gone? What were they supposed to do now? Would Keith hate him if he knew how much Lance wanted to take his hands out of his pockets and wrap them around Keith's neck? Keith turned unhurriedly, smiling as he recognized Lance, his eyes scanning him up and down, taking in the scrubs and lab coat. Lance had to stop moving since he wasn't so certain about his knees holding him up while Keith was looking at him like that.

"Why do you even have real clothes?" Keith asked, shaking his head, joking about Lance's outfit.

"So I can loan them to you," Lance quipped, feeling happy, relieved to see Keith again, speaking before he'd thought about what he was saying, how it would come across. Keith glanced down at himself as if he couldn't remember that he was still wearing Lance's University sweatshirt.

"I'll get it back to you," Keith promised guiltily, brushing his hands over the lettering as if that would suddenly make it unrecognizable to Lance as something that belonged to him.

"Don't worry about it," Lance tried to backtrack. He didn't even want the shirt back, because if Keith still had it there was still something keeping them together. An excuse. "No rush or anything; it looks good on you." Lance closed his eyes, wishing he hadn't said that, then deciding to just move on quickly to minimize the damage. "What are you doing here?" His question froze Keith, turning him somber and maybe a little bit uncertain. He shrugged, like his being here wasn't unprecedented.

"When I couldn't find you at the apartment, and you wouldn't answer your phone, I figured you'd probably be here so I came to check on you."

"_You're_ checking on _me_?" Lance asked, surprised, not sure if he could be happy about that. Was that something it would be safe to be happy about? Maybe not, considering how dark Keith's expression had turned in the last few seconds.

"Yeah," Keith challenged him. "Someone needs to make sure you don't run yourself into the ground. I thought I told you to stay home and rest." He paused, frustrated, shaking his head at Lance. "Why is that so impossible for you?"

"It's not impossible, just unnecessary," Lance dismissed, trying to figure out if he felt threatened or not, not sure why Keith sounded so mad. Was it because he'd left the apartment? But he was fine now. Surely, Keith could see that. "And I've got a lot of stuff to do. What about you?"

"What about me?" Keith pressed, almost hotly.

"You didn't stay home either." Lance hadn't meant to say that. At least, he didn't think he meant to, but it was out in the open now. He just hoped that his tone didn't sound so betrayed in real life as it had in his head. It doesn't matter, Lance reminded himself. It doesn't matter where he was last night or this morning. Keith's here now. He came here looking for you. Focus on that. It must mean something. "Never mind," Lance sighed, wondering if they were ever going to get anywhere. Keith's face had turned complicated, too many emotions overlapping at once. He started several times before he actually began speaking again.

"That's not my. . .," Keith paused, as if he were unable to say the word 'home.' "Lance, I can't keep staying there. It just doesn't make sense, and it's messing you up. I mean, you were a complete wreck last night. I had to leave."

Lance closed his eyes, shrinking, embarrassed all over again about that, especially since it seemed to have finally pushed Keith away. He prepared himself for what was coming next, expecting a thank you and good-bye. Keith had taken his duffel bag away with him. Everything he owned was now probably in a dresser at Shiro's place. Because that _did_ make sense.

"Lance, don't . . I didn't mean it like that . ..Why do I have to suck at this," Keith growled to himself, sounding exasperated. Lance timidly lifted his head to find Keith with one arm folded across his waist, his face dropped into his opposite hand. "That came out wrong. Let's just go back to why I'm here, ok? Can we do that?"

"Sure," Lance agreed, ready to just get it over with and especially ready to talk about something other than how weird he'd been last night. Get some understanding, maybe closure. "Why are you here?"

"When do you get off?" Keith asked instead of answering, looking around the waiting room as if suddenly remembering that they weren't really alone. Not that there were tons of people here, but there was a tech at the front desk and donors walked steadily in and out of the front door, tactfully ignoring their soft, cornered conversation.

"I'm done," Lance responded, curious, a little apprehensive, suddenly glad that Steve had suggested he leave early. "I just have to go get my stuff."

"Ok," Keith said, nervous. Did he sound nervous? "Can I walk with you to your next thing? Are you going back to the apartment or we could go grab a coffee or something . . . or do you even have time?"

"My next class isn't until three," Lance said, amazed and unbalanced listening to Keith. What was going on here?

"So . . ." Keith trailed off, looking at his shoes. Lance wondered why Keith suddenly seemed unable to look at him anymore. He used to stare. He used to stare without blinking at Lance. What had changed besides his temperature? Other than Lance's weird behavior last night.

"I'm never going to say no to coffee," Lance supplied, watching tension visibly leave Keith's shoulders as he agreed to go with him. As if he thought that Lance might say no. "Let me get my coat."

Lance hesitantly began backing up, eyes still on Keith as if expecting him to vanish if he turned away. Keith made eye contact for a second, one of his brows lifting along with one corner of his mouth. "Just a second," Lance promised to be quick, pausing at the doorway to the donation floor.

"I'm not going anywhere," Keith also promised, but Lance wasn't sure. Keith had options now; he was definitely going somewhere. But not right this second. Right this second, he was with Lance, and they were going to get coffee like regular people. Like friends. And Lance was going to enjoy it like it was the last time they'd ever see each other. A shiver ran over him as he pulled his bag over his shoulders. He wasn't going to think about it.

Waving farewell to a few of his coworkers, including Taylor at the front desk, Lance made his way back to Keith, who'd been true to his promise and hadn't moved at all in the waiting room until he saw Lance coming back to his side. Then Keith pushed the front door open to let Lance out into the cold first.

They started walking, and Lance felt weird about how clumsy they were at it. Or maybe it was just him? His first steps were way too close to Keith, almost touching him, barely stopping himself from reaching around his waist to support him as he moved. Keith no longer needed assistance to walk, but they had never really walked anywhere that Lance hadn't physically supported him. He overcompensated, stepping away and ending up almost tripping off the sidewalk and into the deeper snow that had been shoveled along the sides of the campus walkway. Keith grabbed his coat sleeve, pulling him closer before releasing him, as though setting the new standard of how much space should be between them.

"You ok?" Keith asked, some of the worry of last night creeping into his voice again.

"Yeah," Lance answered promptly, maybe too fast. He caught Keith staring sideways at him and almost tripped again. He was going to have to figure this out in a hurry; he was acting like a lunatic. "I just realized I've never really walked next to you before."

And just like that, Lance made Keith overly aware of his own natural gait to the point where he paused on the sidewalk, letting that sink in. "Shit, you're right," Keith whispered, remembering all the other times they'd moved next to each other, when neither of them had really been walking normally. He looked so adorably befuddled by this realization that Lance had to laugh about it. Keith looked at him, trying to figure out if he were being made fun of or not, but when he saw Lance's face, he hesitantly snickered too.

"Come on," Lance invited, Keith's quiet laugh helping him to feel better, like they were going to be ok after all.

"I can't remember how I walk now," Keith told him, still unmoving on the sidewalk.

"I think it works best if you don't think about it too much," Lance advised. "And anyway, it's not like I'll know if it's different than usual."

Lance started walking, forcing Keith to take some steps to keep up with him, though it looked as though Lance had made it awkward for him.

"Keith!" Lance burst out, still laughing. "Just walk!"

"Ok!" Keith returned, though he didn't sound mad. "But where do you want to go? Who makes your favorite coffee?"

This quieted Lance as he felt the warmth of a mug against his chest, sitting on his couch in the dark after the ambulance run. Remembering the black richness of Keith's coffee that he set to brew for Lance every morning for the past three days.

"Uh, you do," Lance said seriously. Keith seemed stunned for a second before shaking his head. Lance wasn't sure that Keith really believed him.

"Your second favorite then," Keith amended, glossing over it. They were walking side by side now, naturally, close but not touching, no longer overthinking it. Lance figured that was probably the best way to play this. Do not overthink. But he really didn't have a second favorite coffee. Or if he did, that was also at the apartment. He didn't really buy coffee from any of the places on campus; he brought it from home. Same with all of his meals. It all was part of his plan to save as much as possible to send home for his family. Eating a ten-dollar meal on campus or drinking a three-dollar coffee seemed extravagant to him most of the time. Plus, he'd never wanted to take the time to go stand in a line somewhere for it.

"I don't know," Lance answered, honestly. "I don't buy coffee; I just bring it with me. Where do you usually go?"

Lance watched Keith debate the pros and cons of the multiple coffee options they had within walking distance. Actually, the way Keith scanned their surroundings made it clear that he might even be more familiar with the university grounds than Lance was. Though now that he thought about it, Lance realized that he didn't explore much. He went to and from the hospital, to and from his classes. Sometimes he went over to one of the libraries, though not as much now that Pidge and Hunk had made him his own computer. He suddenly wanted to ask Keith to take him to all his favorite places, wanted to see the university from his viewpoint. He couldn't think of anything better than that.

Keith made up his mind with a visible jerk of his head and began leading Lance through the grounds. They passed the bookstore, crossed Ellis Ave, almost as though Keith were taking Lance back to Snell-Hitchcock where Lance had found him in that miserable little apartment. They did walk past it, but continued through the frozen Quadrangle, a path that Lance frequently took on his way home. Keith didn't even glance at the place he used to live. When they hit the east side, almost to University Ave, Keith turned left into the Eckhart Library, but didn't stop. Lance divided his attention between watching Keith and looking around their path as the library transitioned into the math department and then into Mandel Hall.

"Keith? What's your major? How long have you been a student here?" Lance asked as Keith sped him along through the hallways with the ease of someone who had obviously done this many times.

"I'm actually not," Keith answered vaguely, pulling up in front of the entrance to a café called Hallowed Grounds, a sketched ghost holding a tiny coffee mug printed on the door. Lance hadn't even known this place was here, despite how the scent of coffee drifted pretty far down the hallways. On the other hand, he hadn't spent all that much time in Mandel Hall; most of his classes were in other buildings or the hospital directly. Though he thought he might have attended a mandatory concert here once as part of his humanities class.

Lance entered the café first as Keith's statement came to the front of his focus. "What do you mean you're not? You're not a student?" Because they had a class together. Keith lived in the dorms? Except Shiro had said that wasn't his apartment. Now Lance was confused. Again. And afraid. If Keith weren't even really attending university here, that was one less reason for him to stay.

"I didn't finish high school, Lance," Keith confessed, looking like he didn't really want to talk about it. "There's no way I could get accepted here."

"Keith," Lance began, though he didn't know if he wanted to ask for more information or apologize for bringing it up. He probably should have known. If Keith had been put into a correctional facility at sixteen, it had definitely messed up high school for him. But then why did he attend Lance's English class? He'd been partnered with him on the biography assignment. Their professor knew his name. How did that even work?

"Get us a seat?" Keith asked, more a request to postpone whatever conversation Lance had just started than actually worrying that they wouldn't be able to find a table. The place was busy, here in the middle of the noon lunch hour, but Lance could spot a place for them on the far wall, past the trio of pool tables that dominated the center of the room.

"I . . . all right," Lance agreed, unwillingly separating from Keith to hold the table. He slipped past a group at one of the pool tables, noticing the line of couches for the first time as he walked around them. The whole café was painted cream and black. There were hanging lights of two varieties, actual lamps with green shades and long strings of patio bulbs. They were all turned on, though Lance could hardly tell since the room was so full of natural light from the arched windows that lined two of the walls, broken only by an enormous alabaster fireplace. Lance picked a table close to it, though there was no fire lit right now. He set his backpack in one of the wooden chairs for Keith, then settled into the one across from it, thinking about what Keith had just said.

Sometimes Lance thought he knew Keith, but he'd just been hit hard how he knew almost nothing. They'd been with each other for all of a week, and most of that hadn't even been really Keith. Lance remembered that he and Shiro hadn't talked at all about the time after Shiro had transferred as Keith's social worker. Lance knew that Keith hadn't stayed at the group home, that he hung out at that one bookstore because it stayed open until midnight. Had Keith pretended to be a student to cover being homeless?

Lance thought how easy it would be. It was actually almost perfect. If you were quiet and resourceful, everything to live was available here. Lance wasn't sure that's what Keith had been doing, but it made a sad sort of sense. Lance felt unbelievably fortunate all of a sudden as he thought of how Keith could have lived here, a shadow student, auditing classes, sneaking in after faculty luncheons and parties where he hadn't been invited to pick up food. Dodging into dorm rooms by pretending he'd forgotten his key card in order to use the resident showers and laundry facilities. Who knew? He might have gotten his coat and hat from a laundry room lost and found. Lance suddenly wanted to rest his head on the table – the weight of his thoughts pulling him down.

"Hey," Keith's voice behind him, right next to his ear. Lance hated that he jumped. He turned toward the voice, but realized that Keith was very close to him, causing him to pause halfway, sensing Keith's heat covering him. "I forgot to ask what you wanted."

"I'm good," Lance said, thinking of his travel mug already in his backpack, thinking of how he couldn't possibly let Keith buy him anything after all his new speculations.

"Lance, you saved my life. Let me buy you coffee," Keith pleaded, still bowed over Lance, mouth near his ear, one hand resting on the back of Lance's chair. Lance tried not to shudder; he had to fold his hands together tightly under the table so they wouldn't shake. "What do you want?"

There were about twenty things Lance could think of right now that he wanted, and none of them had anything to do with coffee. He wanted to lean backward and pull Keith closer. He wanted to kiss the soft place under his jaw, breathe him in as deep as possible. Wanted to settle against Keith, into his warmth. He wanted to ask him about his non-student-status he'd just revealed, wanted to tell him how he didn't want Keith to go anywhere, that he wanted them to be together from now on. He clenched his hands.

"Whatever you usually get," Lance croaked, his voice doing weird pitches, eyes fixed on the decorative carvings on the fireplace mantle. "Or just plain coffee."

"Ok," Keith accepted, not moving from behind Lance. "What about lunch? Did you want a sandwich or anything?"

"No," Lance answered quickly. Having Keith buy him food was too much. He had his lunch already packed in his bag. "I'm all set. Really."

"Be right back," Keith said, at last standing straight. Lance felt Keith's hand just barely slide across his upper shoulders as he pulled away. Or maybe he'd imagined the touch; it had been so light. Now that Keith wasn't right on top of him, Lance found he could move again. He turned in his chair, watching Keith return to the line, ready to cut his gaze to the bulletin board on the far wall at any moment if Keith turned back. He didn't want to be caught staring.

And there was plenty to stare at. This was the first time Lance had been able to watch Keith move, healed and healthy. He didn't quite have Shiro's grace, but there was a certain elegance to his movements. He dipped a shoulder and slipped between a group of students who were carrying their coffees toward the couches. Even the way he stood in line, easy, ruling the space he stood in while being unassuming. Lance could see how he had maneuvered through the university, never casting any doubt that he was part of it. Lance was beginning to understand how he'd never noticed Keith before. He really was a shadow, apparently unseen by even the people who stood right next to him. But he'd never be invisible to Lance again.

By the time Keith returned, Lance mostly had himself under control, though he still hadn't decided how he wanted to proceed. Part of him wanted to tell Keith everything, lay all his emotions out and see what happened. The more sensible part of him repressed that idea, reminding him about his family, about his lack of time for relationships and how unfair it would be to ask anyone to walk that path with him. And then there were the sharp memories of the past few moments with Keith - how Keith had been pulling back from Lance, flinching from his touch, making it clear that things weren't as intimate between them as they had been while he was sick. Remembering that made Lance realize he wasn't ready to be crushed. He thought it would be best to keep quiet. Let Keith tell him what was going on.

Lance moved his backpack while Keith set down two cups of coffee and a wrapped sandwich on the table.

"I know you said you didn't want anything, but we can share this," Keith offered, taking the newly cleared chair. "It's called a Cuban."

"What?" Lance asked, leaning forward as Keith unwrapped the sandwich, curious. Keith helpfully took the top bread off for his inspection, revealing what appeared to be roasted pork, cheese, mustard, and pickles. "I've never heard of that." They called this thing a Cuban? Lance shrugged, having no idea why. Though it was cute that Keith had bought it.

"Oh," Keith said, wilting just a little. "Want to try it?"

"I'd rather watch you eat it," Lance replied, honestly, keeping his hands under the table, not trusting himself not to spill the coffee if he reached for it. "It won't hurt your mouth?"

"Not enough," Keith answered, picking up the sandwich and taking a bite. The flavor of something that wasn't dairy-based or egg or completely free of salt made Keith close his eyes in appreciation. Lance smiled, relieved to see him able to eat. The last thing Lance had watched him try was part of one of Hunk's cookies, which he'd nibbled painfully on until he'd given up halfway through. Now he acted like a hungry wolf, completely focused on the sandwich.

Lance pulled out his phone, a sudden idea coming to him. He waited for Keith to finish a bite before calling his attention.

"Hey, Lobito, let me get a picture," Lance suggested, then went on to explain when Keith looked flustered and confused. "My family wants me to send more pictures home, and they've never seen you."

"What do they need to see me for?" Keith asked, uncomfortable, almost hiding.

"Because you're my friend," Lance told him, reaffirming that it was true, as though he wanted to remind Keith that they had something between them. "So they'll know what you look like. We'll have to turn, though. The light needs to be coming from the other side or your face will be too dark to see."

"Lance," Keith hesitated, unsure, not turning. "I wanted to talk to you about that."

Something closed in Lance. The way Keith was talking sounded final. He looked almost upset. Lance decided to stall. "About what? The lights or my family?"

"No, Lance, listen. I've been thinking about it for a couple days." Wait, Keith, don't say anything. I don't want to hear how it was great and thanks so much, but you're going to be staying with Shiro now and leaving campus because you were never a student to begin with. How we probably won't see each other again. How all I'll have about you are the stats in my notebook and this picture if you let me take it.

"Here, Keith turn your face this way," Lance interrupted. Because this might be the only way I can keep you. Keep us right here in this coffee shop that I never knew existed with your hair and that hat and your eyes. Oh!

"Holy crow, Keith!" Lance exclaimed as Keith finally gave up and turned the way Lance wanted him to. He didn't have a choice, really. Lance had changed seats to get the angle, so Keith was forced to turn in order to face him. "Your eyes!"

Keith didn't look like he knew what to do with that. First, he widened them, then closed them. "Geeze, Lance, what about them?" Lance could tell in his tone that Keith was frustrated that Lance wouldn't listen to him, but Lance needed a few more minutes before everything changed again. Because after Keith laid it all out, they wouldn't be able to come back to this. It would be different. The coffee would taste different. Once Keith decided to reveal anything – about his past, about his feelings, Lance couldn't pretend anymore. He'd have to accept facts, no matter what he really wanted. He stared at Keith's eyes, trying to get a better look at them even though Keith was now studying the table.

"They're violet," Lance told him, amazed, finally seeing their color for the first time when Keith turned toward the light from the windows. Keith rubbed his hands over his face.

"They're gray," Keith corrected, muttering. "Lance, can we –" But something had caught Lance's attention over Keith's shoulder. Something that blurred Keith's words into the background music, cut off any argument they might have had about colors and how light affected them.

"Oh no," Lance murmured, distracted, lowering his phone from where he'd been trying to capture a photo of Keith. "I don't believe it. Crap." His new position seated next to Keith gave him a perfect view of the café entrance through the camera app. He quickly shifted back to his original chair, the one where he was sideways toward the entrance, hoping he'd been quick enough.

"What now?" Keith asked, extremely flustered. Lance understood that he'd been all over the place the last few minutes. Moving chairs repeatedly, going on about photos and lighting and the color of Keith's eyes. Which he was still certain were more purple than gray, but now wasn't the time for it. Keith turned to see where Lance had been looking, what had torn Lance's attention away from him, but Lance grabbed onto his arm. "Lance, what the hell?"

"Don't look," he hissed. "It's_ her._"

"What?" Keith asked again, ignoring Lance and shifting slightly in his seat to look toward the entrance where just a few seconds ago Allura Lyons had come through the door with another girl Lance didn't recognize. "What do you mean her?" But then revelation snapped his features tight. "Wait, you're kidding - _her_? That's your girl? The one you canceled the date with?"

"Never see her anywhere but work until she's trying to avoid me and now she's everywhere she's not supposed to be," Lance said under his breath rather quickly, forgetting that he was the one in this café for the first time. Allura might come here every day for all he knew. Then it hit him in the next instant how rude he was being. "Sorry, Keith. Is it ok if we go? Maybe back to the apartment? Then we can talk."

Because he wouldn't be able to handle it if Keith were to give him bad news here at this table while Allura sat chatting with her friend in the same room. It was bad enough that both of them were unavailable, unattainable to Lance. It would be unbearable to have both of them here together, reminding him of everything he would never have.

"Which one?" Keith asked softly, watching Lance very carefully, ignoring Lance's request to leave, making it seem like he'd asked the most important question ever. Lance risked a quick side glance toward where Allura stood with her friend in the line to order. He didn't know the other girl. She was beautiful, not as gorgeous as Allura, but still very pretty. She had golden blonde hair, pulled into a long pony-tail, pale skin. They were obviously extremely close, laughing with each other, shoulders touching. It kind of hurt Lance to see it, how this girl was obviously Allura's best friend, but Lance didn't even know she existed until this moment. He might even know less about Allura than he did about Keith. "Lance? Which one is yours?"

"Neither," Lance answered bitterly, but then softened as Keith glared at him, demanding an answer. "The one in the white coat," Lance admitted, wondering why Keith sounded so earnest for Lance to point Allura out. What difference did it make which one?

"Oh," Keith sounded relieved. "Why would she be avoiding you? She's not still mad at you even after you helped her yesterday?" Keith probed for understanding, and Lance remembered that he hadn't cleared that up for Keith yet.

"No, Keith. She was there, but not involved. I'll explain later, just . . . keep your head down for a second. Maybe they aren't staying."

But Keith was doing the opposite of keeping a low profile. He'd pulled his arm out from under Lance's hand, standing up. "Keith!" Lance whispered furiously at him. "What are you doing?"

Keith looked down at Lance, half smiling, his violet / gray eyes full of a warm kind of pain. What sort of look was that? "I'm giving you a thank you present," he said, and then he had slipped away again, leaving Lance unsure of what to do. What had just happened?

Lance watched, horrified, as Keith pretty much marched right up to the girls. They had their attention on the menu board as he silently joined them, but it didn't stop him at all. He reached out and gently tapped the blonde girl on the shoulder, his back to Lance so he couldn't tell if he were talking to them or not.

"What on earth?" Lance murmured to himself, shocked, as both girls suddenly threw themselves at Keith. Allura wrapped her arms around Keith's neck while her friend slipped hers around his waist. Keith lowered his dark head between their bright ones, putting an arm around each of them, and for a second, they just stood there embracing as if they were all alone.

They didn't separate until the barista pointed out that they were holding up the line. Allura's friend kept attached to Keith's arm as Allura ordered and paid, apparently asking Keith if he wanted anything because he shook his head at her. All the while, Lance was reeling. They . . . they knew each other? How?

It appeared he was about to find out. Once their coffees were done, Keith began leading everyone back to Lance, who didn't know what to do. What was Keith thinking? What kind of thank you gift was this supposed to be?

"Come sit with us," Keith invited, coming within earshot, using his free arm to shepherd Allura closer to the table. Unable to cope with this, Lance found himself jerking to his feet, not sure if he wanted to stare at Allura or Keith. Allura's eyes doubled in size as she recognized Lance, and she pulled her coffee closer to her abdomen, holding on to it with both hands. "Lance, is it ok if they join us?" Oh my God, Keith, what are you trying to do to me?

"Uh, sure," Lance stammered, still standing and staring like an idiot. "It's fine with me." Allura looked like she wanted the ground to open and swallow her, though.

"This is my best friend, Lance," Keith introduced him casually to the girls, as though he had no idea that Allura and Lance already knew each other, as if he wasn't noticing how they had shied away from each other, awkward as hell. As though he couldn't tell that he was killing Lance right now. "Lance, this is Allura and Romelle. They're . . ." Keith paused, all his smoothness coming to a stop as he tried to figure out how to explain his relationship with the girls in simple language.

"We're Keith's friends too," the blonde girl who must be Romelle supplied, gazing fondly at Keith. Extremely fondly. Lance tried to stifle a gasp as information came together in a rush in his head. He'd seen the name Romelle before. In the case file. Romelle was the name of the girl that Keith had saved. David's ex-girlfriend. That meant that Allura . . . Allura had been the friend in the parking lot with them that night.

"That's . . . that's great," Lance forced out, trading a desperate look with Keith before trying to summon his courage to look Allura in the eye. Romelle easily put out a hand to shake Lance's, the only one in this group who had no idea what was really going on. Could she not feel the tension that was closing in tight around them?

"Should we sit?" Romelle invited, smiling innocently, reminding them all that they were still standing awkwardly at the table.

"Actually," Allura spoke up, hesitant, and Lance realized that she was about to excuse herself. She made eye contact with Lance for a long painful moment. "Romelle, I was thinking it might be best if we head home now." 

Romelle's lips pursed slightly as she sent a heavy stare at Allura. The expression was clear. She did not want to leave yet; she wanted to stay with Keith. Lance didn't blame her, but was starting to feel a little jealous about how easily Romelle had attached herself to Keith's side.

"No, you can stay," Lance heard himself speaking, still looking pointedly at Allura, feeling that icicle stabbing into his heart again, freezing him inside. "Catch up. I'll go." Because this couldn't get any worse, could it? Staying here at the table trying to drink coffee as he watched Romelle snuggle with Keith, watched Allura trying to look everywhere and anywhere but at him.

"Lance," Keith froze him to the spot with his name, forcing Lance to stop and look at him. Lance could see in his face that he was trying to do Lance a favor. He was asking for Lance to trust him that this was somehow going to work out. Lance doubted it, but his own desire not to leave Keith kept him from grabbing his bag and running for the door.

"Allura, do you two . . . know each other?" Romelle speculated, already seated with Keith even though Lance and Allura were in a standoff next to them.

"Yes," Allura finally admitted, though Lance said, "Not really," thinking about all the things he didn't know about Allura. His answer turned her attention to him, and for the first time he saw hurt in her eyes. He swallowed, pulling a chair out for her, trying to prove that he could mind his manners. She hesitated, but then took the seat, allowing him to push it in. Lance sat down, across from Keith and next to Allura, picking up his coffee mostly to have something to do.

"So, Keith, how have you been?" Romelle asked, her features somber. Lance thought he might tell Pidge sometime that Romelle wasn't as carefree as she'd accused her of being. There was still a lot of guilt on her face. She knew that she'd done irreparable damage to Keith's life. It bothered her. "Is everything . . . over now?" She risked a glance over to Lance as she asked that question, probably thinking that Lance might not know what had been going on recently.

"It's done," Keith said, nodding. "The verdict was read last Monday; I'm clear. Thanks, both of you, for coming in to testify for me."

Lance almost choked on his coffee. Chaotic, Allura had said when he'd asked her how her week had been before he'd met Keith, before any of this had started. He'd wondered what that meant for her. Now he understood. She'd been asked to participate in the trial.

"Thank goodness," Romelle sighed, drenched in bad memories. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that. I mean, I'm forever grateful, but I never wanted that to happen to you. It must have been so awful."

"I'd do it the same way again," Keith responded, and Lance felt a little piece of him die as he watched Romelle melt at that. Ugh, Keith, how is this supposed to be helping? "And it could have been worse. I was lucky to have Lance helping me for a lot of it."

Lance quickly grabbed on to his coffee with both hands, setting it gently down as everyone's eyes settled on him. He decided the safest place to look was right at Keith, who looked right back, resigned and unflinching as usual.

"I didn't do much," Lance muttered, but Keith wouldn't allow him to be humble about it.

"Lance saved my life last weekend," Keith told the girls, giving out more information in the next few seconds about his illness and suffering than he'd ever been able to speak out loud while it was actually happening. "He dropped all his plans to take care of me. I got really sick; I almost died. If Lance hadn't stayed with me, taken me to the emergency room, I don't think I'd be here."

"Oh my God," Romelle breathed, staring at Keith worriedly, checking him over more thoroughly now that she knew this. "I'm so glad you're ok now."

Lance heard a strange sound to his right, where Allura was sitting. He risked a glance at her, shocked to discover that she had her face in her hands. Was she crying?

"Allura?" He checked her, surprised. Timidly, he reached over to her, just barely touching her sleeve. She peeked out from between her fingers, her eyes wet and shining.

"Allura, it's ok," Romelle comforted, stretching her hand across the table. "Everything turned out all right." But Allura was shaking her head.

"Lance, I'm so sorry," she wept, covering her eyes again. The ice in Lance's heart didn't melt at her words. It felt more like it had finally cracked his ribcage in half. Now she was sorry?

"I wasn't lying to you," Lance told her, probably unnecessarily now.

"I knew that," Allura cried. "I knew it before you even hung up the phone. I can't _believe_ the things I said to you."

"Wait," Romelle said, from very far away. "Allura . . . is this _that_ Lance?" Allura jerked her head up from her hands, her eyes daring Romelle to say anything else. Keith quietly stood up, pulling Romelle gently with him.

"I think you guys need to have a talk," he instructed. Allura nodded, biting her lip, staring at the table. "I'll take Romelle home."

"Keith," Lance pleaded, but he didn't know what he wanted him to do. Not leave. Definitely not leave with Romelle. Keith dipped his chin toward Allura. There it was. Lance's thank-you gift. A chance to work it out and make up. But Lance didn't know if that's what he wanted anymore. Keith hadn't even had a chance to tell Lance what he'd wanted to talk about. They weren't finished. What if he left with Romelle and never came back? "I'll see you tonight, right? Dinner?"

"No," Keith responded, handing Romelle her purse. "Shiro's meeting his military friends for dinner tonight. They do it every Friday, and he wants me to meet them this time."

"But tomorrow?" Lance pushed, feeling things coming apart at the seams. He couldn't let Keith out of his sight without some sort of promise for a future meeting. "The party?"

"I wouldn't miss that," Keith promised, soothing Lance. "Now." He very pointedly shifted his eyes toward Allura again, who sat wringing a napkin in her hands. Romelle bent over her before she left, giving her a tight squeeze of encouragement before taking Keith's arm again.

"He _is_ cute," Lance thought he heard her murmur to Allura. "Good luck," she said more audibly.

Both Lance and Allura turned to watch Keith and Romelle leave the café, both feeling very acutely that whatever they had to talk about was going to be painfully awkward. Lance thought about letting her off, telling her he accepted the apology and she could go. He wouldn't bother her again. But part of him was curious. If she had known he wasn't lying, then why hadn't she texted him her email address? Why go to such extremes to avoid him? He thought, now that Keith had given him the opportunity, that he would like an explanation.

"So," he began, hoping his tone was gentle. Allura lifted her eyes from the table, contrite, ashamed. The ice in Lance's chest started to melt a little.

**Author's Note: So who saw it coming? I know there are quite a few of you mad about this shift. I get it. I had it all set up for Keith and Lance to get together and then I ruined it. To that all I can say is . . . patience. I think you'll like it better if you have to wait for it.**

**Thanks for staying with me this long. I can't tell you how much it means to me to see you reading, to read your comments. To know that there are some of you out there who are enjoying this as much as I am.**


	28. Logistics

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Logistics**

"You knew I was telling you the truth?" Lance repeated, mostly to process, lifting the very top layer from this deeply tangled mess that had become his sort-of relationship with Allura. A relationship that was somehow more complicated now that they knew they had a mutual friend. The friend that Lance was already missing. That he hadn't wanted to leave. He understood that Keith wanted to give them some privacy, but what Lance thought this conversation needed most was a referee. Or at least someone who could back him up. He had never been good at talking to Allura.

"Yes?" Allura didn't seem sure of her answer. She stared at her coffee, held tight to the mangled napkin. "Certainly by the end of the call, when you hung up. Your voice had changed. You'd never spoken to me that way before."

"You could have sent me your email address," Lance prompted, trying to keep any hardness out of his voice. If he wanted answers, he couldn't shut her down before he got them. But his hanging up on her was a weak excuse. She had his number; she could have contacted him at any time. "I had the write-up for your report ready to send you," he added to soften what he'd just said.

"I couldn't do that," Allura explained, apparently mortified by the thought. "I'd just treated you abysmally. I called you a liar for needing to help your friend . . . to help _Keith_. I most definitely couldn't ask for your help, for a _favor_, after that."

Obviously, she hadn't understood what he'd been trying to say. The way she said the word favor reminded Lance of last night. She'd said it just now the way he'd said it to her then, and he wished he'd been gentler with her. He'd let his hurt get the better of him, allowed it to make him bitter towards her. Perhaps it was partly his fault that she had been avoiding him. He hadn't been all that kind to her before hanging up on her either. Still.

"Can I ask what happened?" Lance ventured, hoping Allura would know what he meant with that question. Because really? Where had they gone wrong? If she was sorry, why hadn't she felt safe enough with him to even say so? When had he given her the impression that he would ever hurt her? All he'd ever done was make sure that _wouldn't_ happen, even afterwards, even last night. So little trust for all that effort. "How did we end up like this? I know we weren't exactly friends, but I thought that we could be."

Allura had turned shy now, her hands clenched in her lap, eyes sinking further from the table to the floor. She didn't look capable of answering him. He wasn't sure she'd understood the question again. Maybe they couldn't effectively communicate after all. Or maybe Lance needed to strip any kind of hint of suggestion from what he said. Hunk had told him that, hadn't he? If he wanted to get anywhere, he was going to have to actually talk. Just like with Keith, if he wanted her to trust him, he was going to have to trust her first.

"I was looking forward to it," Lance disclosed rather bluntly but not harshly, trying to show her by example what sort of information he wanted, astonished at the ease of the confession, how quickly it unstuck from his throat. "My roommates had been pushing me to ask you out for months, so it was a huge deal." This was the first time he'd ever felt so completely in control while talking with Allura. The first time he'd allowed himself to tell her things without worrying about how she'd take them, what she'd think of him exposing his feelings. And while he didn't like how unsettled she seemed to be, he was enjoying the freedom he had right now to say what he'd always wanted to say. "It was supposed to be a breakthrough where you could finally see me outside of work. I was so excited to talk with you where we wouldn't be interrupted by a machine. Where I wouldn't be in scrubs." He paused, looking down at himself and sighing, remembering Keith teasing him earlier. "Though apparently I'm always in scrubs," he said, wilting slightly. The comment curved the corner of Allura's lip, the tiniest of sorrowful smiles.

"I planned my outfit for an hour," Allura said in surrender, still unable to look at him, but the ghost of a smile had strengthened, as though talking were getting easier for her as well. "Something I'd never wear to donate plasma. Something I'd never wear to study either." Lance thought it best to keep silent, to not stare at her right now, even though he wanted to. He wanted to see every nuance of her expression for these words, as though he needed visual confirmation of the truth of it. She'd been excited to meet with him? Had she also seen it as something more than a study date?

"Romelle did my makeup," Allura continued, laughing in a soft embarrassed way. A little frightened that she was really telling him these details, laying herself open and vulnerable for Lance to tear her to pieces. Maybe she did have trust in him after all. "I had her do this fancy braid in my hair. I told my parents I'd be staying the night with her on campus because I wasn't sure what might happen." She stopped herself, rearranging her last statement. "Because I hoped that we might. . . well anyway. They didn't even want me to go to class that day, my parents. They were worried about the drive and the storm. Remember it was a blizzard last Friday?"

"Yes," Lance vocalized, knowing he'd likely never forget that night, the lightning on the lake, the thunder crashing into the base of his spine, Keith's secrets just beginning to bleed into his life. A week ago. That was only a week ago.

"They didn't want me driving in it. I almost had to beg, and in the end, they only let me go because they knew I was not going to even try coming back in it after dark. I only had one class that morning that didn't cancel, so I spent the rest of the day at Romelle's apartment, nervous and excited and watching the clock. The hours were just dragging interminably. And then you called."

"And ruined everything," Lance lamented, though he didn't actually regret his decision, just how he'd gone about telling her, how she'd taken it. Nervous? When was she ever nervous? He made her _nervous_? Lance looked at her, her posture, her hands. She was nervous right now. He hadn't expected that. Maybe all this time she'd used her silence and her book to hide that. Huh. She'd done a spectacular job. He'd never seen a hint of anything other than poised sophistication from her.

"I'm the one who ruined everything," Allura corrected.

Lance continued to monitor her, noticing that her long hair had fallen over her shoulders, obscuring her face. Feeling irrationally brave, he leaned closer to her, pushing the hair back. It was every bit as soft as he'd always daydreamed it would be. Allura didn't move, which Lance couldn't tell was a good or bad sign. He actually wasn't sure about any of this. What he wanted from her. Where he wanted this conversation to go. He remembered something else that Hunk had said. Nothing's ruined. At least not forever.

"I was so disappointed," Allura continued. "But that's no excuse for what I said, how I behaved. I think I stood in Romelle's room with the phone in my hand for twenty minutes after you hung up. I thought of calling you back immediately."

"Why didn't you?" Lance probed when she didn't follow through on that, and as he asked, she raised her eyes to his at last. Her shiny, pale-blue, crystalline eyes.

"Romelle asked me the same thing. I've asked myself the same thing, and the answer changes every time so it must not be real. Romelle told me all weekend to just get over myself and call you, like I couldn't do it because I couldn't admit to being wrong. And I . . . didn't want that to be the reason, didn't want to think of myself as that petty and prideful, but the longer I waited . . . the more impossible it became until it was Wednesday and I just . . . I'm really not who you thought I was, am I?"

Lance sighed, ignoring the open invitation to insult her. This was way more than he'd expected. He glanced toward the door, where Keith had gone, and decided that going back over the details, dragging this out of Allura, wasn't something he wanted to do to her. They couldn't change what had happened between them.

"If you're not, that's more my fault than yours," Lance mused, thinking of Keith again. Or still. He'd made assumptions about Keith that weren't correct and it had hindered their relationship at the beginning, before he set aside what he thought he knew and actually started learning who Keith was. He'd done the same to Allura, granted in a more positive light, but the outcome had still been damaging. "But you know. There is a solution."

Allura tilted her head to the side, intent, humble, coming to terms with her own arrogance and how it had almost taken something from her. Lance found himself smiling at her, remembering a time, such a short time ago, when he would have given anything to be with this girl. He offered her his hand, a traditional American greeting.

"The name's Lance," he said, as though they were truly just meeting here for the first time. In a way, they were. There was nothing substantial from any of their previous awkwardness, nothing to be learned in a stolen glance.

"Allura," she responded, her slim hand taking his steadily, the first time they'd touched without the barrier of gloves.

"Nice to meet you," Lance expressed, watching as Allura's shoulders rose and fell, as though a weight had been lifted from her.

Their conversation moved forward from there. Allura asked Lance questions about Dr. Farmer, about his childhood growing up outside the US, about his major and his schedule and his plans for the future. He asked her much of the same things, a verbal back and forth, getting all the requisite preliminaries out of the way, setting the foundation of getting to know someone. Allura was in political science. Her father was the CEO of a manufacturing company; her mother taught dance to children as a hobby and was involved in several charity organizations. Allura had no siblings compared to Lance's four. She'd been accepted at Columbia, but decided not to go that far from home for college.

Lance noticed as they spoke that Allura wasn't nearly as confident as she had always appeared. Her aloofness was part of her protection. If no one knew her, really knew her, then she could maintain that she was nearly perfect. There were hints that she'd been brought up with the expectation that she should be. Their misunderstanding made more sense to Lance, knowing this. She'd shown him something about herself that she never shared with anyone, a side she wouldn't want others to know, and she'd done it without meaning to. Channeling her disappointment about their missed date into an accusation of his character was something she regretted but somehow couldn't take responsibility for. She found it easier to pretend it hadn't happened, that she hadn't messed up, which meant not seeing Lance anymore, not having him remind her of how she'd behaved. A lie to herself that he'd forced her to accept by working Wednesday and Thursday nights, by following Keith into this coffee shop.

Though it was obviously good for her, apologizing, acknowledging that she'd gone about things the wrong way. She no longer held tight to the destroyed napkin. In fact, she laughed as she scattered the shreds of it across the table, feeling better, like she could be herself. That she no longer had to maintain any pretense around him anymore. They talked easily, without expectation or worry about how they were coming across. It was actually better than how Lance had pictured their first date would go. He found himself remembering all the things he had once admired about Allura – things that were still there to be admired.

"Lance, can I ask you something?" Allura asked after a while, once they'd run out of trivial bits of data. They'd been asking each other questions for a long time now, but this one felt different. She'd gone shy again.

"Sure," he invited, open, actually grateful to Keith for forcing them into this. It felt so much better to have all the inhibitions regarding Allura broken. It was such a relief to look at her and just see a girl. A beautiful girl, but still, a real, breathing, mistake-making human. He liked her better this way.

"It's . . . well, it's about Keith."

"Ah," Lance said neutrally, taking a deep breath as something in his chest tightened again. He hadn't forgotten about Keith, not for a second, but somehow he wanted to keep Keith and Allura separate in his head. "Ok," he said anyway. There's no reason you can't talk to Allura about Keith. You're not dating either one of them. You'll probably never date either one of them. This is not a big deal.

"I wouldn't normally pry like this," Allura prefaced, watching Lance for signs of disapproval. "But he said that you're his best friend and so I wondered . . . has he brought up Romelle to you recently?" The question came so hesitant, as though Allura thought it rude to ask, but also that she didn't truly want the answer. Lance also knew that the answer wasn't for her – she was asking for Romelle.

"He told me what happened," Lance admitted, knowing that was far from the answer that either of the girls wanted. "Nothing more than that."

"Oh," Allura sighed, disappointed. Lance knew why. He'd seen Romelle's face as she looked at Keith, saw how quickly she'd gone to him, how close she tried to get.

"He was really sick," Lance heard himself explaining, wondering what he was doing. Why was he giving her this? Why encourage them? "On top of everything else that's been going on." Stuff they hadn't even talked about. The hospital, the trial, getting adopted.

"I'm sure," Allura granted, nodding to herself. "I'd just hoped. It's been so hard for her, you know?"

"No?" Lance said, dubious about this. Hard for her? What had been hard for her? Did Allura even know what hard was? "In what way?" He didn't mean to sound confrontational, but he didn't know if he succeeded. Keith had saved her. Keith had ruined his life for her. What sort of difficulties could she possibly have?

"I've known Romelle my whole life. We grew up together," Allura told him. "All of us. David, Romelle, and me. She lived in the house next to mine, and we were always going back and forth. She had a TV in her room, but I had a swimming pool in my backyard. But after what happened with David, she hardly ever left her house. She didn't come to class anymore; her family started homeschooling her instead. And as soon as she was accepted here, she moved out, came to campus where no one knew her."

"Why?" Lance asked, intrigued. Allura gave him a sad, indulgent smile. Lance had seen this expression on Pidge before. It meant he was being stupid, but he couldn't help it because he was a boy.

"It was so terrible," Allura went on. "The Hunts blamed everything on Romelle, of course. She and David had dated for two years before she finally realized that she didn't have to let him control every piece of her life. He told her what she could and couldn't wear, what she was allowed to eat, how much make up she could put on and what parties she could attend. Everyone always told her how lucky she was to be his girlfriend, like it was something special. That's probably why she put up with it for so long, thinking that there was something wrong with her that she wasn't happy. When she broke up with him, it was bad. David made up all sorts of stories about her. Said she was bipolar. That she . . .," Allura paused, readjusting her thoughts, changing her mind about repeating any of the lies David might have said about her friend. "None of it was true, but the way he told it, it was like he was some sort of saint, that he was trying to protect her from herself, giving her something she didn't even want. He refused to leave her alone, which is, as you know, how Keith got involved."

Lance kept quiet, sensing there was more to be said. Allura gauged him, watching him for something. To see if he believed her? To see if he understood the injustice here? Whatever she was looking for, she seemed to find it. Allura continued explaining how David had ruined more than one life.

"Then after David came back from the hospital, after Keith was sentenced, everything got so much worse. No one would even listen to the truth. Somehow the story got out that Romelle was cheating on David with Keith, who no one even knew. Another version said that she'd been selling herself to him for drugs. The girls we went to school with started calling her the most horrible names, shunning her, stealing from her. They blamed her for David getting hurt. And Mr. and Mrs. Hunt didn't help at all. If anything, they encouraged the behavior. They started poisoning the whole neighborhood against Romelle, repeating the lies that were circulating at school. The families we'd known all our lives wouldn't even let her babysit their children anymore. In the end, I think I was the only friend she had left. Sometimes she'd ask me what had really happened, as though she'd heard the lie so many times that she'd forgotten the truth."

Lance exhaled hard; he'd never even thought about this. Probably because it was so wrong. And yet, knowing what he did about the Hunts, he wouldn't put it past them to be so unkind.

"That's terrible," he acknowledged, feeling sorry for Romelle for the first time since he'd found out about her. He wondered if Allura had decided not to go to Columbia, not because she hadn't wanted to go that far from home, but that she felt that she couldn't leave Romelle to face these challenges alone.

"It was getting better once she moved to campus, away from everyone," Allura said, trying to brighten her tone. "She's made some new friends here, good ones. Real ones. She was starting to move past it, even starting to let go of Keith a little bit. But then we were called in last week for Keith's trial, and it brought everything back to her. Like no time had passed at all. The poor thing. The Hunts' lawyer was so cruel to her, too. He wanted every single second of that night replayed in graphic detail. He wanted it from both of us, really, but it was much harder for her. He kept trying to get her to admit that it had been her fault somehow, as if that were even possible. I think the only way she got through it at all was because Keith was with her again, looking directly at her, never took his eyes off her the whole time, as though he was holding her together from where he was sitting."

Oh. So Lance wasn't the only person who Keith stared at that way. He knew that shouldn't hurt his feelings, but it still did. He thought of Romelle grabbing on to Keith when she'd seen him, the relief in her face, the contentment as he leaned his head over hers, how he'd held her. The familiar gesture of him pulling her from the table, handing over her bag.

"She's in love with him," Lance said.

"Of course, how could she not be?" Allura questioned, and Lance tragically agreed. How could you help but fall in love with the person who came out of nowhere and saved you? "She's been completely dedicated to him from that night he helped her. He's her hero, truly. She wrote him letters while he was in the facility, called him every day to check on him. She even went to visit him a few times. I was worried about it at the beginning. I mean, the first time I'd ever seen this boy he was . . you know . . . and Romelle had already been through one abusive relationship. But Keith has always been very gentle and sweet to her. Polite and kind. He told her over and over that it wasn't her fault, that he didn't blame her, and that he would do it again the same way. Well, you heard him. She told me they used to talk for hours. I thought for sure they'd get together once he was released, but she lost touch with him after that. It's like he vanished completely."

Lance glossed over this, knowing that part of the story already. The lost years of Keith Kogane when he was never where he was supposed to be. Where he'd been thinking that no one wanted him, despite the growing evidence to the contrary. Lance had already heard about that. He was more fixated on what he thought was the most important thing Allura had said so far about Keith and Romelle.

"They were dating?" Lance clarified, surprised that he was surprised.

"Well, sort of," Allura answered. "They couldn't really go anywhere, but they _were_ close. Romelle was devastated when he disappeared. Before Keith, she'd never been with anyone except David. And she hasn't been with anyone since. I've been trying to get her to move on forever, but it's like she was waiting for Keith. I was truly horrified by the situation that brought him back to her, but awful as it sounds, I was happy that they'd found each other again, that she hadn't been waiting for nothing. Though it got a little strange with the trial. He stopped answering his phone rather suddenly last week. It looked as though he were disappearing again."

"No," Lance denied on Keith's behalf, shocked and dazed, a strange ache in his soul. "I found him in his apartment on Friday, sicker than I've ever seen anyone, and then he wasn't in any shape to talk until after the trial ended Monday afternoon. He's been busy since then too. He's not trying to avoid anyone; I just honestly think he doesn't have time."

"Still - I want to help them get back to how they were. Don't you think they belong together?"

"I . . I don't know," Lance stuttered, put on the spot. Was he really sitting here with the girl he'd fantasized about, making plans to create a relationship for the boy he was suddenly infatuated with? Or was it recreate? They'd already been together. At least as much together as it had been possible to be with Keith in the detention center and Romelle becoming a social pariah. Funny how Keith had forgotten that part when he'd been explaining it all to Lance earlier. Though, those personal details hadn't really meant much to the trial, which had been the main focus of the discussion. Lance hadn't even thought to ask if Keith had kept in contact with her. Never thought for a second that she'd become his girlfriend, even though it made sense for it happen that way.

"Oh, is he seeing someone?" Allura changed direction as she monitored Lance's expression, crestfallen at his lack of enthusiasm for her idea. "Is he dating someone else?"

"If he is, he didn't tell me," Lance said, all the ease of their chat falling apart at this new direction, thinking of Keith and Romelle. About them being together. Her hands around his waist, burying her face into his chest. "But it's really up to them, isn't it?"

"I suppose that's true. I guess we'll just have to see what happens," Allura said, shrugging, disappointed but not daunted. "At least they've found each other again and everything is finally over. It might work out wonderfully well."

Lance swallowed, swirling the last few sips of his coffee around in the bottom of his cup. It had gone cold a long time ago. Wonderfully well, she said, though Lance was struggling to see Keith and Romelle together. Though she probably had a better chance than he did, what with her having a longer history with Keith. Oh, and being a girl probably helped a _lot_. God, Lance was so stupid. He might be the only idiot in the world who could confuse being vulnerably and deathly ill with being gay. He should have known better. 

"Lance?" Allura called to him, bringing him back to where she was still seated next to him at the table, the sun glinting off her white hair. She had reached forward to touch him; he just now noticed. Her hand was resting carefully on his arm.

"Yeah?" He asked, wondering if she'd asked him a question that he hadn't heard, feeling so helplessly ungrateful. How long had he wanted to be here, exactly here, with Allura? And now he had it. She was sitting next to him at the table, touching him, talking with him, and he was barely paying attention. What was wrong with him anyway?

Allura pulled back, noticing him staring at her hand. "Nothing," she stated. "You just . . . seem rather sad all of a sudden."

"No," Lance contradicted, not wanting Allura to even suspect why he might be sad about her optimistic comments for the romantic future of their friends. "Just tired. It took a long time to clean up last night."

"Oh," Allura said, her eyes going unfocused momentarily as that scene replayed in her memory. She'd been sitting right across the aisle from that whole disaster. She'd seen everything. "You were absolutely brilliant last night, by the way. I meant to tell you, but somehow we just didn't . . . Do you know if she's ok? The girl?"

"She's fine," Lance confirmed, liking the change in topic. He didn't want to talk about how perfect Romelle and Keith were together anymore. He was going to have to think about that later, when he was alone and could process it properly. Seal his heart up about Keith in private. "Brett's been reassigned to the front desk, though."

"I . . have questions about that," Allura hinted, and Lance understood why. Looks like Allura wasn't the only one who was going to have to admit to screwing up today. "You gave my file to him."

"I was being . . . I shouldn't have even thought about it," Lance let her know. "I didn't know I was holding your folder until I got out into the waiting room. I wasn't expecting to see you; it wasn't your normal day. And when I saw your face, I knew you didn't want to see me, so I decided to let Brett take you back."

"I've never seen you look at me like that before. You looked so angry," Allura said, sounding sad, knowing that he had every right to be angry. Even though angry wasn't the right word. "Seeing you that way made me certain I'd wrecked everything."

"More hurt than angry," Lance corrected her. "I figured you were still mad at me, didn't want to have anything to do with me because you still thought I was a liar. But I shouldn't have taken it out on you that way. I shouldn't have switched folders. Not with Brett."

"Why do you say it like that?" Allura speculated, curious. "Like you knew he would hurt me."

Lance hesitated for a moment before deciding to show her what he was talking about. He pulled back his left sleeve, displaying the dark bruise that covered the inside of his forearm – all the way down to his wrist and going halfway up his bicep. The bright sunlight coming in from the windows made the contrast to his regular skin tone extreme. Allura gasped and reached out, as if unable to stop herself from softly resting her hands over the damage. Lance's muscles tensed, but her touch was too gentle to hurt. Her fingers were cool as they rested lightly against him. She stared at him with her mouth slightly open, concerned and horrified at the same time.

"This is how Brett does venipunctures," Lance explained.

"How . . . Lance, I didn't even know this was possible. How is it that he's even allowed to work there if he does this kind of damage consistently?"

"Well, that's the thing. It's not consistent; it all depends on the person. Brett's not a bad guy," Lance defended him. "His technique is correct; he's just inexperienced. He needs more practice, and there's only one way to get it. His biggest problem is trying to go too fast. He's never done anything dangerous; he's never screwed up like he did last night before. But he's not very gentle. So yes, I knew he'd hurt you, even when he does everything right, his venipunctures hurt. I don't let him start new donors, or let him touch anyone with difficult veins, the ones who bruise easily. Mostly, he takes donors off machines instead. Or if no one is available, he takes the experienced, easy sticks. But I just couldn't let him touch you no matter how hurt or angry I was. It would be like I'd hurt you myself on purpose and . . . no. I couldn't be responsible for that. That's why I sent him away. I'd changed my mind about it at the last minute." 

"You were protecting me?" Allura asked, her voice warm, touched and guilty. Lance slipped his arm carefully out from under her hands, tugging down his sleeve again.

"Yeah," Lance said, wondering where to go from here.

"Lance, I don't know what to say," Allura fumbled. "Thank you. I'm so sorry."

"So am I," Lance replied, picking up pieces of the shredded napkin and stuffing them into his cup. Their conversation felt as though it were coming to an end. Lance wanted to start walking, moving, processing everything that had happened this afternoon. When he stood up, Allura also rose with graceful speed, as though afraid he were abandoning her forever.

"Lance, wait. You're right - I don't deserve it," Allura began, rather quickly, wanting to get it out before he left. Lance paused in the process of picking up his bag. "You've already been more than gracious, but . . . do you think you could you give me another chance?"

Lance met her gaze, looked hard into her face, and thought about what she'd just said, what she'd offered. A week ago, he'd been a stuttering disaster at the very idea of being with her. Now he wasn't sure. But if he couldn't be with Keith, and he'd known that wouldn't work even before he'd learned about Keith and Romelle. Since he couldn't be with Keith . . . why shouldn't he give Allura a chance? He'd wanted her once, and he knew if he turned her down this time, there would never be another opportunity.

"Ok," he heard himself agree, quietly, reserved. "I'd like that," he finished, willing it to be true. Being with Allura was a better choice logistically anyway. It was a match that would be more acceptable to his family. It was better for his own protection, really. Keith was unpredictable and unobtainable on so many levels, and the sooner Lance got that into his head, the healthier he would be.

Allura beamed at him, and he smiled softly back at her. She took it as an invitation and stepped closer to him. Lance opened his arm to her almost on instinct, allowing her to embrace him, testing it by folding her against his chest with both arms. They'd never been this close. She had a floral scent to her hair; he could feel the sculpt of her shoulder blades. She fit into him as perfectly as he'd always fantasized that she would. Her five-nine frame exactly right for his six-one. It's right, he told himself, forcing his heart to believe it.

"Thank you," Allura whispered, close to his ear.

"Thank you," Lance echoed, stepping away from her. This is good. This is everything I've always wanted. He found her hand and purposefully interlocked their fingers, leading her out of the coffee shop. Away from the music and the little ghost on the door, wondering if they could cross the threshold and not have everything that had just happened burst apart, like waking up from a dream.

But no. Even in the brightly lit corridor of Mandel Hall, Allura still stood beside him. They let go of each other only so Lance could properly put on his backpack and Allura could button up her white peacoat and put on her mittens, which were pale blue wool with an intricate cable knitted up the backs. It matched her hat. When they reached for each other again, there was a slipperiness to the grip, their hands shifting beneath the wool. Lance held on tighter as they walked together outside, back towards the Quad, waiting for the part where this would feel real.

"So . . . what do we do now?" Allura asked him.

"Well," Lance speculated, trying to sound like he knew exactly what they should do now, as if he were completely in control and not half-dizzy in confusion as to how the world had suddenly rearranged itself in the last few hours. "Right this second, I have to go to Spanish class."

"Ok," Allura accepted, smiling at him. "Maybe I can see you after that?"

"I have one more class right after, but I'll be done by five. We can," Lance paused, wondering what would be an acceptable proposal for them. He thought of his apartment, how Hunk had already been planning on extra people for dinner tonight, how that might be the best start to whatever this might turn into. He wanted Hunk to meet Allura, that would be the most reliable test of her character. If Hunk liked her, then it would be ok. Then it might just work out.

"Do you want to come back to my place for dinner after class?" Lance suggested, sounding more sure of himself now. "You can meet my roommate."

"Well," Allura started, looking worried. "I'd love to, but I'll need to drive home before dark, before the roads freeze over. I didn't bring anything with me this week to stay the night with Romelle."

"Oh," Lance said, slightly disappointed. This was harder than he'd thought it would be. Allura laughed, though there was no humor in it.

"Don't worry," she assured him. "I'm sure we can find somewhere in our schedules to pencil each other in."

"Allura, I think . . . before we go any farther . . . that we should talk about that," Lance said as he stopped walking. He just wanted her to understand what this might be like. He wanted her to have all the information before he disappointed her again.

Allura turned serious, studying him.

"I don't think I'm going to be the easiest person in the world to date," Lance confessed. "I'm not home much. Seventeen credits, a part-time job, and my volunteer EMT requirements don't leave me a whole lot of free time. I just want you to understand that situations like last week can happen again. I may have to cancel plans, sometimes at the last minute, especially since I'm considering being mentored by someone in the ER and she's . . . well, she'll probably own my soul if I agree to that. But the point is it's not fair to ask you to wait for me, and I won't be offended if you change your mind about starting something with me now that you know."

Lance wasn't sure what he expected after disclosing all of this. Maybe that Allura would agree with him, shake his hand, and wish him luck in his loneliness. But when he turned his head to look at her, she was looking back with a soft kindness in her eyes. A new patience.

"I appreciate the offer, but after watching you yesterday, I think I have a better understanding of what being with you means. I know I handled last week badly, but I promise that I will never do that to you again. You saved Keith's life; you knew exactly where you needed to be last night and exactly what to do. You're very skilled, Lance, and I won't be so selfish as to deprive you from using those skills to help people. I waited for you last night, and I'm prepared to keep doing that. I'll be satisfied with whatever moments you can give me. I want to support you."

"Allura," Lance began, wondering if she had any idea what she was saying. How long this promise could possibly last when the reality of what she'd just agreed to hit her. When she realized how easy it would be for her to find someone else, someone who could dote on her the way that Lance couldn't. But at the same time, what right did he have to tell her that she couldn't keep her promise? How could he tell her that she would fail him when he'd never given her a chance to even try?

"I do have a question for you, though," Allura continued, her expression playful, as though the situation had been somber for long enough.

"What is it?" Lance asked, preparing himself.

"Am _I_ an 'easy stick'?" She asked, rather teasingly, and tension broke off of Lance in a heavy clump.

"Actually, you're not," he told her, smiling, which caused her to pout just a little bit. He took her arm, though she was wearing too many layers and it was too cold outside to expose her skin so he could explain properly. He rested his hand against the inside of her elbow anyway, the place on Allura's body that he was most familiar with. "Your skin is dark, which makes the veins harder to see so I have to go by feel more than anything, and you've had needles placed into the same vein over fifty times on a regular basis, so there's quite a bit of scar tissue that's built up, which makes it harder to cannulate without hurting you. So, no, you're not easy at all."

"But I never even feel it," Allura said, which prompted a bit of pride to warm Lance's chest.

"That's because I don't allow anyone to touch you but me," Lance told her, more serious than playful. He could tell that she understood what he was saying, but it was something that she'd never really thought about until just now. Gratitude filled her eyes.

"Who was the hardest patient you've ever done?" Allura wondered as they began walking again, holding hands, shoulders brushing up against each other.

"Keith," Lance answered without hesitation, feeling the cold seeping into his neck. Saying his name sort of hurt now, the memory of being with him still fresh and tragic. Especially because Lance had never truly been with him. His loss a brand-new wound in Lance's heart that Allura's presence at his side was only barely keeping from bleeding out.

"Keith donates plasma?" Allura followed up, her tone disbelieving.

"No," Lance scoffed, knowing that Keith's iron levels wouldn't have got him past the front desk. It'd be months, maybe years, before he'd be healthy enough to donate plasma. "I'm the one who placed his IV when he was crashing in the ambulance on the way to the ER. Hardest thing I've ever done."

"Oh," Allura sounded sorry that she'd asked these questions now. "I guess I didn't realize that you'd be the one to do anything like that."

Lance shook his head. He didn't want to go into how he really shouldn't have. He didn't want to remember that ride at all. Not now, or ever. Allura suddenly snuggled up close, clinging to his arm with both hands, resting her head against his shoulder.

"He's ok," Allura reminded him, as though she could tell that he was back in that ambulance, watching Keith gasping for breath, watching his numbers fall so dangerously low. "You were there for him when he needed you, and now he's fine."

"You're right," Lance acknowledged, forcing himself into the present again. He leaned his head on top of hers momentarily before straightening up as they reached the front of his building. "Thank you," he said, grateful to her for more than one thing.

"Go on," Allura released him, nodding toward the door. "You don't want to be late for your class."

"What are your plans tomorrow?" Lance asked, a sudden burst of a question as Allura turned to leave. "It's my roommate's birthday, so we're having a little party for him. I'm cooking Cuban. If you're free, maybe you could come? Bring Romelle." He didn't know why he said that. Maybe he thought it would be a good way to test himself, or maybe he just wanted everything to hurt all at once. Or maybe it was a last, weird and desperate attempt to keep Keith in his life. If Lance were going to date Allura, and Keith was dating her best friend . . . then they could all stay together. Maybe it was a normal that Lance could get used to.

"That sounds perfect," Allura agreed, coming close to him again.

"It'll go until after dark," Lance warned her, thinking of her winter restrictions. "We aren't even starting until six."

"Then I'll go home with Romelle," Allura answered smoothly, showing him that she could be available. It would take just a little forethought is all. "Text me your address?"

"Sure."

Allura had tucked herself up against him, looking up into his face, smiling with that serene sophistication that he'd admired for so long. Lance timidly brushed the back of his hand down her cheek, staring at her like she wasn't really there, like this wasn't actually happening.

"Then I'll see you tomorrow," Allura promised, and Lance realized that her hands were wrapped around his waist. This is a good start. This is good. This is what I wanted.

"You are the most beautiful girl I've ever seen," Lance told her, reminding himself that this was the truth. His words made her break eye contact, like she didn't believe him, her head tilting downward as she looked at the slush at their feet. "Drive safe, ok?"

She nodded, turning her face up. Lance felt her lift onto her tiptoes, felt her arms tighten around him to help her reach. As soft as a snowflake, she kissed the corner of his mouth before dropping back to the ground, letting him go. He took her arms before she took a step away, recovering from the surprise of what she'd just done. He bent down, giving her a longer kiss, her lips smooth and wonderful. We can do this. This is going to work. I'm going to do right by her. I'm going to make this right.

He wasn't sure about his kissing abilities, it wasn't like he had a whole lot of practice, but Allura seemed rather dazed and extremely pleased when he pulled back. She squeezed his hand and then deliberately gave him a little push, making it clear that they couldn't keep standing out here saying good-bye. Lance had to get to class, and even though he knew that, he watched her walk away from him for a few more seconds. You are the luckiest Cuban in the world, he told himself fiercely, wishing that it felt that way.

His Spanish class didn't leave him any mental space to even think about the events of the afternoon. The professor gave an assignment that would require them to record a ten-minute conversation with a native Spanish speaker, and he was the only one in the room. When the thirty-five other students all turned to him simultaneously, he gulped, wondering how he could possibly accommodate them all when his teacher saved him with the mandate that he was only allowed to do five. He was also exempted from the assignment since he would be helping out his classmates. Everyone else would have to broaden their search, but that almost made it harder as he was pounced on immediately after class with requests to be one of the five. It felt strange, to have so many people clamoring for his attention. And none of them was the one he really wanted.

He'd barely shaken off the last hopeful as he closed the door to the ballroom for his dance class, grateful for the movement the next hour promised him. It was impossible to be broody while learning the foxtrot. Or at least, he used to think so. He had to concentrate, so he tried not to think much past Sinatra repeatedly singing "A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square."

Whenever they were required to pair up for practicing the new steps they just learned, Lance usually made it a point to ask the girls who normally did not get asked, though now he wondered what Allura might think of this activity. Would she be ok with Lance dancing with other girls like this? It was just a class, but he'd never had a girlfriend to worry about before.

God, she was his girlfriend. Was she really his girlfriend? Lance tripped in a twirl and barely caught his partner before she fell completely wrong on her ankle. He apologized, taking her into his arms again, even as he was remembering that he'd kissed Allura good-bye. He'd _kissed_ her. And it had been nice.

They switched partners and started the routine again. Lance extended his hand to a girl without even really looking at her, closing his eyes as he pulled her unresistingly into position, lifting their elbows high as his palm settled into the correct spot on her back. He tried to imagine dancing with Allura like this. Did she know how to dance already? Her mom taught dance, but not this style. Maybe he'd teach her.

As he went through the steps, his mind was moving forward, picturing how things were going to go. He started with what might happen tomorrow, when he had Allura, Keith, and Romelle all in one spot. How he was going to be careful to keep his feelings for Keith strictly friendly, how that was going to be so important for him not to make it weird between them. How he was going to be attentive to Allura. How he was going to get used to this.

He danced without thinking about it, hands changing in his hands as new partners came to him without being invited, the words to the song repeating over and over in his head along with the plans for tomorrow. Keith and Romelle. Lance and Allura. Perfect partners. He had to start believing this. He wasn't going to the be one who destroyed the dynamic, who wrecked the synergy. He was going to play his part until it became effortless. Until it became real. Until he'd forgotten that there had ever been a hint of it being a different way.

By the time he'd made it back to his apartment, the sun had completely set, and so had his resolve. He'd almost convinced himself that he was truly happy about how things had worked out. It was going to be fine. He was smiling as he opened his door.

Though it slipped from his face as he entered, feeling immediately that something was very off in these rooms. There were no lights on, no music. Normally it would be bright. Pidge would be sitting at the table, or standing near Hunk in the kitchen. The whole place would smell warmly of whatever Hunk had made for dinner.

"Hunk?" Lance called, closing the door and pulling off his mittens, kicking off his shoes. "Anybody home?"

He glanced at the table, looking for a note, surprised to find it clean. Not so much as a stray bit of wire to be seen. Where was the radio? Where was Hunk?

"Hunk!" Lance repeated, louder this time, making his way to the back, down the hall to Hunk's bedroom. Here at last, he could hear something. Music playing inside the room. Metallica. Oh no. Lance knocked for the politeness of the thing, but he was already opening the door before he'd finished. "Hey, big guy, how's it going?" Lance greeted as he peeked inside, worried by what he might see.

Hunk was sitting morosely on his bed, a stack of computer games by his desk, random piles of clothes and tools all over the room. The organized chaos that Hunk preferred to live in. Lance carefully picked his way through in order to get at Hunk's desk chair, inviting himself to sit. Hunk hid his face in his hands. And here Lance thought he'd had a strange and disappointing day. It took a lot to damage Hunk's good spirits.

"A Metallica kind of bad, huh?" Lance asked, hoping that would break Hunk open into explaining what had brought this on. "Want to tell me about it?" Hunk groaned in response, which got them nowhere.

I'll, um, order us a pizza, ok?" Lance offered, waiting for Hunk to get it together enough to tell him what had happened. Or maybe he should call Pidge. He might have better luck getting information from her. Unless she was the reason Hunk was so unhappy. They did bicker a lot, but it never went anywhere near a real argument. "What do you want on it? Pineapple?"

"I'm not hungry," Hunk murmured, deepening Lance's worry. He couldn't remember a time when Hunk had turned down pizza. This was serious.

"Aw, buddy, pizza fixes everything," Lance said softly, unconvincingly, all thoughts of Allura and Romelle pushed aside for the moment so he could prioritize Hunk. He was thinking back to this morning. Had Hunk been normal this morning? What had changed? Or had Lance just not noticed. It could have happened so easily. He'd been so distracted lately. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Instead of answering, Hunk pointed to his computer, where he'd set his screensaver as a series of gears turning in never-ending circles. Curious and overwhelmed, Lance jiggled the mouse to wake up the machine, the last webpage that Hunk had been looking at brightening enough to read.

It was the JPL website. The one Hunk checked multiple times a day, waiting for the outcome of the internship. They'd still received no word. Lance scanned the page for what was so upsetting. The title of the position was at the top, right under the official logos and seals. The required credentials for applicants were there as was the deadline for submissions. But there was new wording on the page today. Toward the bottom, in red.

This position has been closed and all successful applicants notified.

"Oh, Hunk, I'm sorry," Lance breathed. Apparently, Hunk was not on the successful applicant list. Which meant that Pidge wasn't either. "Does Pidge know?"

"Yeah, she was here with me when I brought it up," Hunk managed, still distraught. "She didn't come back after her class, though."

"Should I go get her?" Lance offered, wondering what sort of shape she was in if Hunk was this low. He was trying to think of how best to cheer up his geeky friends. Especially if pizza didn't sound appetizing. This might take something intense. Somehow the only thing coming to Lance was some kind of movie marathon. Miyazaki maybe. Oh, no wait, this might be bad enough for all of Star Wars.

"She said she was going to stay home and play the most violent video game she owns," Hunk said, and Lance's soul eased about Pidge a little. Being pissed and taking it out through a first-person shooter game seemed better than how Hunk was taking this. Lance felt horribly guilty about being so relieved. If they hadn't been accepted, it meant they weren't moving. They weren't going to leave him. He was sad that Hunk was so upset, but Lance truly didn't know what he'd do if he found out that he'd lost Keith and Hunk and Pidge all in one day. There wasn't enough Metallica or pizza in the world for that.

"Hunk," Lance repeated helplessly, clicking the webpage closed and trying to figure out where the music was coming from. He wanted to turn it off, but decided not to. He'd have to let Hunk process this his own way, but that didn't mean he couldn't encourage him a little. "I'll be in the living room, ok? Come out when you're ready."

He patted Hunk encouragingly on the shoulder as he left the room, mentally preparing the bait that would lure Hunk from his own despair. First, he did order the pizza – the one with the weird toppings that Hunk liked best. He'd just finished when his phone rang. Keith's number.

"Keith?" Lance answered, surprised to hear from him. When had Keith ever called him?

"Hey. How'd it go?" Keith asked, getting straight to the point. "Did you work everything out with Allura?"

"Well, everything is sort of a tall order, but she's not mad at me anymore." Lance decided he loved the sound of Keith's voice. It had a richness to it now that it wasn't slurred with fever, and Keith had a tendency to linger over vowels, opening them more than Lance was used to. Damn it, Keith.

"Good," Keith quipped, sounding rather satisfied with himself. He'd been trying to give Lance a gift with that conversation after all, so of course he'd wanted it to go well.

"You could have told me you _knew her_," Lance accused, wanting to ask Keith a ton of questions about all of this. About Romelle, especially. He should have asked before, when Keith was weak and tied to a hospital bed. He might never have a chance now.

"If you'd ever said her name, I would have," Keith defended himself, and Lance knew he was right. He paced around the living room, trying to figure out the correct cords and remote buttons that Pidge and Hunk and rigged to the television. It somehow talked to a device that got them access to pretty much every movie ever made. Or as they liked to say – every movie ever made that's worth watching.

Lance heard someone on the other side of the line call to Keith, and he knew it was Shiro. That it was time for them to go and meet with Shiro's friends from the Air Force. That they were going out together tonight for the first time as legal family. Lance found he could be happy about that. Happy for Keith to have a family. That was something that everyone deserved.

"Shiro's waiting for you," Lance said, revealing that he'd heard and understood what was going on.

"Yeah, I've got to go," Keith said, but Lance already knew. "I just wanted to check on you. You're home now, right? Nothing crazy going on?"

"I'm home," Lance confirmed, looking around the empty front of the apartment. It didn't really feel like home right now. He wished he had time to talk to Keith about the crazy, but he was busy. And Keith deserved to have a night where everything was perfect for once. "Have a great time tonight, ok? I'll see you tomorrow." If there still was going to be a tomorrow. Hunk might not be feeling like celebrating anything, not even his birthday.

"See you, Lance," Keith said in farewell, hanging up before Lance could even respond. His three-word good-bye strangled Lance around the throat. He was going to have to get tighter control over this if he was going to hang out with him tomorrow. Practice, he admonished himself. It was just going to take practice and getting used to.

Hunk stayed in his room while Lance tried to guess which Star Wars movie might be his favorite. Had he ever told him that? Did he have a favorite? Maybe it would be safest to just start at the beginning, which Lance seemed to remember was actually Episode IV or something. Eh, if he got it wrong, Hunk could distract himself by re-educating Lance about the correct sequence. Lance started it up, setting the volume just high enough that Hunk could hear from the bedroom. Then he grabbed his backpack, spreading his homework out on the coffee table to work with the movie playing in the background. Though he hadn't made it very far into his child development reading when the pizza showed up.

Lance took a minute to have a slice of it, remembering as he ate that he hadn't texted Allura his address yet. Better do that now. Except he'd no sooner sent it then he wondered if he should have waited a little longer. The scent of the pizza and the dramatic ascending leitmotif of the Star Wars soundtrack wasn't bringing Hunk out of his room yet, which meant that this funk could last a while. Which meant that he could be canceling on Allura for the third time without ever actually having a real, successful date. Which meant that he was probably the worst boyfriend ever. Man, was it always going to be this complicated? He thought he'd better call her – at least get it all out in the open so if there did end up being no party, at least she'd know sooner.

"Lance," Allura greeted him on the second ring. Wow, she sounded so happy to hear from him. That was an unexpected surprise. Such a change from the tone she'd used last week, the first time he'd ever heard her say his name out loud. He wished he had a better reason for calling her. "I was just texting you. Should I bring anything with me tomorrow?"

"No," Lance said quickly. "No, you don't have to bring anything. I'm. . .actually not sure if the party's still on." Lance looked over his shoulder toward the hallway. The dark and empty hallway.

"Oh? What happened? Is something wrong?" Allura seemed to be getting better at reading Lance's voice, as though she were learning his tones like a second language. Lance discovered that he was impressed.

"Hunk got some bad news today. That's my roommate. He's pretty disappointed right now and not feeling like celebrating. I'm trying to cheer him up, but if he doesn't want to see anyone tomorrow, then I'll postpone the party for a better time. We can still do something together, though," Lance offered, almost as an afterthought, though he wasn't sure what they would do. "I'm not going to cancel on you again; promise. But we might have to alter the plan a little." Maybe he could talk her into coming over and doing their classwork together on the couch? Or should he take her out somewhere? But should he really leave Hunk in his misery like this? That didn't seem right. Especially after everything that Hunk had done for Lance just this last week.

"Let's just wait and see how things go tomorrow," Allura offered graciously. "I'm sure you'll have him feeling better soon; you're a very soothing person. What sort of bad news was it?"

"He wasn't accepted into the internship position at JPL that he'd been hoping for," Lance explained, letting the compliment slip from his heart without considering it too much. "Which doesn't make sense, honestly. They must have had some incredible candidates if Hunk and Pidge didn't make it in."

"You're talking about your roommates?" Allura hesitantly asked, and Lance realized that he was talking to her like she knew all about them. He may have gone on at length about Allura to Hunk and Pidge, but he'd never told her about them at all.

"Hunk is my roommate," Lance reiterated. "Pidge is his . . .um, partner? They do everything together, and they're the smartest people I know. I thought for sure they'd get in. You know they just finished building a radio? Supposedly, they can use it to talk to the space station. They were going to test it tomorrow. Oh! What'd he do with it?"

Lance stood up with the phone, scanning the apartment for the newly completed radio that had lived either on the table or in the cardboard box next to it for what seemed like months, though it had really only been a few weeks. He hoped Hunk hadn't decided to do anything he'd regret – like smash it with a hammer or throw it from the balcony. But it definitely wasn't here anymore.

"Do with what? The radio?" Allura tried to keep up with Lance using only the voice connection via the phone. The double question forced Lance to hold still, closing his eyes so that he was only focusing on one thing. The phone in his hand. The patient girl on the other side of it.

"Yes," Lance confirmed, slowing himself down. One thing at a time. "He put so much work into it. I hope he didn't decide to take it all apart, but I'll look for it later. How was the drive home? Ok? It takes you . . what? Half an hour?"

"A little more than that," Allura said, a nod in her voice. "I get a lot of reading done in the car, what with going back and forth every day." Lance smiled with his eyes still closed, still standing near the partial wall by the kitchen. Even when she was driving, she was reading. This girl.

"What are you listening to right now?" Lance asked.

"Napoleon Hill's _Think and Grow Rich_," Allura answered promptly, something like passion in her voice. "It's positively mind blowing. Or mind altering? Anyway, it's not anything like I thought it was. I'm enjoying it very much."

"That's . . . not your normal genre, though, is it?" Lance ventured, trying to picture a book like that on the same shelf as Jane Austen and the other popular books that Allura normally brought to her donations. "The last one I saw you with that wasn't homework was _Gone, Girl_, wasn't it?"

"Oh, that," Allura scoffed. "I didn't pick that. My book club did. I bring those fluffy things to donations because they don't take much concentration to get through. I love the girls in the club, truly, they're wonderful, but their taste in books is somewhat, well, I'm sure they think the same about me. The last time it was my choice I made them all read _The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People_. I think I would have been kicked out a long time ago except they know if I left, Romelle probably would too."

For some reason, Lance found this intensely funny. "There . . there really is a book club?" He managed to say, struggling to get the words out because he was laughing too hard. That's what Pidge had always called it. Lance's stalker book club.

"Yes," Allura said, guarded, not understanding why Lance would be laughing about that. "Is that so amusing?"

"I've read every single book you brought in," Lance confessed, softening into snickers as he realized she might think he was making fun of her. "I thought it would be a good way to get to know you." Nope, no good, it was too funny. "I stayed up . . stayed up all night reading _Pride and Prejudice_!"

"Oh, God, I'm sorry! I _hated_ that book!" Allura burst out, and Lance could hear that she was laughing too. Lance leaned against the wall, weak from laughing. All those books, and she hadn't even picked them. He'd spent all that time in a roundabout effort to get to know her . . . and hadn't gotten anywhere with it. "Well, now you'll have to come to the next meeting. You've read more of the selections than two thirds of the girls, so we simply must have you as an honorary member."

"They wouldn't want me either," Lance said teasingly. "The last book I read for fun was the 1300-page _Outdoor Emergency Care Guide_."

"No, now I insist you participate," Allura encouraged with mock authority. "After a book like that, they'll be begging for my self-improvement titles. Oh, but please don't be offended. I think it's incredible that you put so much effort into learning. It's admirable."

Lance huffed, calming down, smiling. She really was amazing. He felt something like genuine affection taking root in his chest, replacing the icicle that had been there yesterday.

"I . . do what I can," Lance admitted humbly. "Just like you."

"Hmm," Allura hummed, pleased.

"And right now, I'm going to go do what I can for Hunk," Lance followed up, drawing their conversation to a close. "I just wanted to let you know that tomorrow is a little sketchy right now. But I'm _not_ canceling. We'll figure it out.

"Thank you, Lance," Allura said, gratitude thick in her voice. "I'll see you tomorrow . . one way or another."

"Right. Good-night, Allura."

"Good-night." There was a pause after the final word, and Lance knew that she was waiting for him to hang up first. He thought about waiting, but in the end, he shook his head and clicked end on his phone. He would see her tomorrow, and right now he was pretty concerned about Hunk's missing radio. Lance knelt in front of the cardboard boxes, beginning to carefully pick through them to see if he could find it.

"Lance?"

Lance jerked his head up, relieved to see Hunk leaning against the opening to the hall, the place where Keith had been leaning yesterday morning.

"Hey, Hunk, want some pizza?" Lance invited, trying to be bright. Hunk was staring at him strangely, his arms folded across his broad chest, eyes narrow and calculating.

"Did I just hear you saying good-bye to Allura?"

"Oh, yeah," Lance said, realizing that Hunk had no idea what had happened this afternoon. That Keith and Allura knew each other. That Lance and Allura were dating now. "That was her on the phone. We were talking about books."

Hunk let his arms drop, staring around the apartment, confused. Like he'd fallen into an alternate reality. "She's talking to you? You're laughing about it?"

"Yeah. We're, um, we're sort of dating now?" Lance didn't know why that came out as a question. Maybe because it didn't feel real yet. Maybe he wanted Hunk's approval first before it could be a real thing. He watched Hunk's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.

"Ok – that's literally the last thing I thought you were going to say," Hunk said, rather accusingly. "What is it with you lately and the dramatic revelations? Oh, hey, this stranger I brought home who almost died in our living room is on trial for murder but he didn't really do it, and by the way, I'm dating the girl who wouldn't speak to me yesterday. How does that even work?"

"You better sit down and have some pizza for this one, buddy," Lance warned him, and Hunk obediently perched on the couch near the food, staring at Lance, who figured this was probably a welcome distraction for him. It kept him from thinking about his missed opportunity at JPL. So Lance talked. Told Hunk all about Romelle and Keith and how they were all connected and how Lance and Allura had worked out their misunderstandings and now she was his girlfriend, sort of, maybe. They were working on it.

"Wait a minute," Hunk interrupted him at one point. "What about Keith?"

"What about Keith?" Lance repeated, stiffening up, knowing that even if he successfully tricked every other person about it, including himself, he'd never get it past Hunk – who was looking at him rather scoldingly for playing ignorant about his question.

"The way you two have been acting, I was expecting your dating announcement to be a little different," Hunk replied, putting it very tactfully.

"Keith's not like that," Lance blurted out, staring at the carpet. "He and Romelle dated after he saved her."

"And you were head over heels about Allura before you met Keith," Hunk pointed out, undaunted. "Who's to say Keith's not the same as you? Or maybe he's fighting it? Did you even talk to him about it?"

"God, no. How am I going to bring something like that up?" While Lance was grateful that Hunk wasn't acting so depressed, he wished there had been a better way to get him out of it.

"Easy. You look at him and say," Hunk stuttered, deflating. "You say –"

"You can't even say it and he's not even here!" Lance exploded, and Hunk shrugged in defeat. Lance decided to move on, softer. "Allura thinks that Keith and Romelle are going to get back together. And I want him to be happy. He freaking deserves it. So no, I'm not talking to him about it. I'm not making it weird between us. I'm dating Allura like I wanted to in the first place, and Keith is going to date her best friend, and I am going to be ok with that. Ok?"

Hunk looked extremely skeptical. "You're going to be ok with that?" He repeated, as sarcastic as Lance had ever heard him.

"Yes," Lance said emphatically. "Allura is fantastic. She's smart, ambitious, and beautiful, warm and kind. She's better than I even imagined her. It's so perfect it's like it's not even real."

"And there it is," Hunk said, a little smugly.

"Hunk," Lance pleaded. "Keith and I can't work out; there's nothing there to work with. It might have looked like something, but only because he was _sick to death_. The past couple days, he didn't want me to even touch him. He flinched when I put my hand on his head to check his temperature. _Flinched_. I don't want to embarrass him any more than he was already. I want him to stay in our lives, so I'm going to support him through however many girls he wants to date whether it's Romelle or whoever."

"I still think you should talk to him," Hunk advised, grating at Lance's heart. "I find it's the most efficient way of figuring things out."

"I don't think so," Lance denied, unwilling to talk about it anymore. He slouched dejectedly onto the couch next to Hunk, his eyes pulled toward the television where he had no idea what was happening in the movie that was still playing in the background. "What's even going on in this?" He asked, just to switch topics.

"Let's shut it off," Hunk suggested. "It's not the movie we need anyway."

"Fine," Lance agreed immediately. "What do we need?"

Hunk's normally soft brown eyes had a sharpness to them as he turned to look at Lance. "Pacific Rim," he said, pushing a button on his remote without breaking eye contact. Lance had never heard of it, but he'd rather watch giant mech robots than talk anymore. Though he had one thing left to say.

"Hey Hunk? Promise me something?"

"I'm not going to say anything to Keith," Hunk said, knowing exactly what Lance was going to ask. "But if you want to be fair to everyone involved, and I gotta say, the body count on this is getting high, then you should."

They stopped talking as the movie started, but Lance didn't think that either of them watched it.

**Author's Note: Ugh . . I know. I'm sorry. I felt this chapter was too important to leave out. I'm trying to be quick, though. I think there's only about four chapters left of this. That's rather astonishing to me. Hang in there just a little longer. I know this chapter reads like dissonant chords, nails-on-a-chalkboard and it's supposed to. Have some faith. I know what I'm doing. **


	29. Gravity Turn

**Author's Note: Hey there, everyone. It's been a while, huh? We're coming up on the one-year anniversary of when I posted the first chapter, isn't that wild? It continues to consume my thoughts most of the time, though I confess that I've been focused on events that happen after Hunk's birthday. And I've been stuck in that place that all writers go sometimes. You know? The place where I'm pretty sure that the story is all wrong and my writing is awful and what on earth am I wasting time on this for? It'll pass; and I will NOT abandon this story. In fact, I think it's time that Lance and Keith got to spend some time together, don't you?**

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: Gravity Turn**

At a quarter to seven, Lance had already been awake a long time, though he hadn't moved from his bed. He lay there, hands behind his head, watching the shadows in his room dissipate as shards of sunlight speared their way from his window, across his desk, along the carpet, until they finally hit the closed door on the other side. He'd eased himself onto his back, a position that had stopped being painful thanks to Keith's and Hunk's dedication to keeping antibiotic on the long wound from the coffee table. Lance had never seen it, but the heal time on it made him suspect that there would be some sort of scar.

Worry had kept rest at bay for a long time last night, after the movie, after the pizza had been put away. After Hunk had helped Lance with medicine before quietly and sadly drifting back into his room – Lance's attempt at lifting his spirits only partially and temporarily effective. The worry had turned into one of those nights filled with excruciating dreams, as though Lance's sub-conscious was waging war with his decisions. In one, he kissed Keith just as Allura walked into the room. She burst into tears and Keith shoved him back with a growl, as aggressive to Lance as the first day they'd met. In another, Lance watched Hunk destroy his radio more than once, asking Lance if he was happy, until Lance finally woke up and stayed that way. The scenes remained, but at least now he could sort through them.

What shook him the hardest was that everything that was happening right now had been his deepest desire. He'd desperately wanted Allura to be his girlfriend. He'd wanted that connection, that ease in being with her. With almost the same fierceness, he'd wanted Hunk and Pidge to stay here in Chicago with him. Now he had both, but he couldn't enjoy either. And the guilt was crushing him under his quilt as though he'd been the one responsible for denying the internship application, as though he'd done something unethical in order to trick Allura into liking him. And there was the other guilt – the darker one that made him involuntarily lock muscles all over his body – his jaw, his hands, his core and shoulders. The feeling that he was so incredibly selfish for not appreciating enough how he'd just gotten everything he'd ever wanted. How could he not be _grateful_?

Because Hunk was miserable, for starters. Probably Pidge too, but Lance hadn't spoken to her about it yet. The weird woven, knotted thing that was Keith and Allura was too complicated to touch, so Lance was avoiding it. Now that the sun was up, he could settle into his best avoidance strategy – keeping as busy as possible. It wasn't hard; he had plenty to do. Homework, birthday preparations, which included a trip to the nearest Latino grocery store for plantains. Then, of course, today was still laundry day. No time left to think at all, really.

In the quiet of the early morning, Lance kept mostly to his room, leaving it only to make coffee and use the bathroom to brush his teeth. He wanted to let Hunk sleep as long as he liked today. He was going to do everything to make his birthday as good as it could be, despite JPL.

While Lance waited for Hunk to wake up, he wrapped the gift that he'd asked his mother to send from Cuba, a native blend of spices that Hunk had tasted in a restaurant once and then continuously tried to replicate without success. He was constantly coming at Lance to try a new experimental combination, never quite getting it, asking Lance all the time whether he needed more or less of one thing or another. Lance knew what the spice was, but growing up eating something and knowing what was in it were very different things, so he asked his mom to mail the authentic mix almost four months ago, figuring that it would take forever for something like that to make it through customs. It didn't help that, as usual, Eva overdelivered. Lance had asked for 200 grams. Eva had sent a two-kilogram brick. Before he sealed it with tape, Lance reserved a couple tablespoons to use when he cooked dinner later.

Somewhere between Lance's chemistry and biology assignments, he heard movement in the kitchen. Cupboards opening, mugs clinking together. Hunk was up. Lance finished the last couple sentences of his chapter before heading to the table to keep Hunk company. It was a relief to see Hunk wearing his apron over his pajamas, steaming coffee mug on the counter by the sink, a bowl and a wooden spoon in Hunk's hands.

"Hey, there he is! Happy birthday," Lance greeted cheerily, making himself at home at the table, watching Hunk carefully, trying to gauge his mood today. Just because he was awake and baking didn't necessarily mean anything good.

"Thanks, man," Hunk replied, sort of smiling down at the contents of the bowl. Ok, so borderline on the despair. It looked like Hunk was trying to pretend like yesterday had never happened. Lance was more than prepared to run with that plan.

"So where's Pidge taking you?" Lance moved them forward with the question, knowing too long of a pause would be like disappointment quicksand. "Somewhere special?"

"The Museum," Hunk answered, placing the bowl on the counter so he could rummage through the cabinets for one of his large skillets, checking if the oven had preheated. Lance was glad Hunk's back was to him because he didn't think he'd done so great at keeping his face neutral.

"Yeah? That'll be fun." He tried to sound excited, but really, Pidge and Hunk went to the Museum at least once a week. They knew everyone who worked there and could probably give the tours themselves. He'd thought Pidge would have stepped it up a little bit for a birthday, but then again, maybe it really was their favorite thing to do.

"Not that Museum," Hunk corrected Lance, as if he'd seen his face anyway. "The Field Museum. Pidge wants to introduce me to Sue." Lance must have looked confused when Hunk resurfaced above the partial wall with the skillet. He was certain he'd never heard either of them mention an acquaintance in any of their groups with that name. "It's the T-Rex skeleton," Hunk explained. "They named her Sue, and they have just about every other animal that's ever lived there too. Plus an Egyptian exhibit and . . . Pidge says there's a ton of stuff there. I don't think we can look at everything in one day but we're going to try. You want to come with us?"

Lance couldn't think of anything he wanted to do more than go look at dinosaur bones with his friends. It had been one of the most magical days ever when Pidge had dragged them both to the Museum of Science and Industry with her for the first time, intent on showing the island boys a little taste of what Chicago had to offer. They spent all day there and then went out for gyros afterward. Life had been easier then.

"That sounds awesome, Hunk," Lance told him, meaning it. "I wish I could."

Hunk's face crumpled, so he hid his disappointment by being extremely dutiful in scraping the batter from the bowl to the skillet. Lance wondered if he should change the plan a little. Maybe he should call Allura and they could all just go to the Museum together. He'd make dinner tomorrow, stretch the birthday out for a few days to make it last longer. If there weren't a dozen people coming over tonight expecting food and a cake, he probably would have done it.

"Maybe you and I can go later," Lance suggested hopefully. "Or maybe I can finish my stuff and meet you there for a couple hours this afternoon. It's not far away, right?" Lance went through his calendar and to-do list as he spoke. If he pushed back the laundry until tomorrow and went to the store the second that Pidge left with Hunk and walked extremely quickly, then maybe that could work. The idea that Lance could meet up with them later brightened Hunk considerably.

"That would be great," Hunk said with so much conviction that Lance felt absolutely compelled to make it happen. "Just like old times."

"I'll hurry," Lance promised just as Pidge let herself in. Her inquisitive eyes took in everything in an instant, and she jumped into the conversation as if she'd been there all along.

"No, Hunk needs to hurry," Pidge chastised, pulling off her coat and making a shooing gesture at Hunk at the same time. She shifted into a lecture. "Come on. You're not even dressed and they open in twenty minutes! If we're going to have the best day ever, I'm going to need some cooperation here." 

"Best day ever?" Hunk echoed like he had no idea what Pidge was talking about. Or maybe that such a thing wasn't going to be possible.

"Yes," Pidge said, rather manically. "Starting from the very dawn of time, there were about five million things that had to go exactly right to put you on this earth, and so the anniversary of all that success simply must be celebrated with the best day ever – damn the admittance committee _to hell_." Pidge spoke faster and faster until she got to the very end where her throat seemed to close up on her, Lance's first and only indication that she was suffering as much as Hunk was. He made the mistake of watching her too hard and with too much sympathy, causing her to jerk her head down. Lance's instinct was to go to her, but he knew that touching her right now was a bad choice. He looked instead over at Hunk, who was normally much more receptive to comfort, but Hunk was fixated on Pidge, immobile and rigid. Lance saw a delicacy between them, something that had cracked along with Pidge's voice, and Lance understood that they were both going to force themselves into a good day for each other's sake.

"Pull out the skillet if the timer rings before I get back," Hunk instructed Lance as he detached himself and disappeared around the corner to follow Pidge's directions. Meanwhile, Pidge angrily dragged her arm across her eyes, plopping down at the table across from Lance.

"You all right?" Lance bravely asked.

"Shut the hell up," Pidge returned. "It's the best fucking day ever."

Lance took a long swallow of coffee, suddenly glad that he'd excused himself from going with them. He wondered if they'd make it out of the apartment, much less the six miles up Lake Shore Drive. He also wondered how he was supposed to comfort Pidge without getting snapped at. He silently judged her reaction to different phrases like "they have no idea what they're missing" and "I hate them for you" but decided in the end that the safest thing would be to just keep quiet. When Pidge was ready, she'd start talking.

"You're all set for when we get back, right?" Pidge finally initiated conversation again, the snarl gone from her tone, knowing Hunk would return any minute.

"I will be," Lance promised. "Cuban comfort food for twelve."

"Twelve?" Pidge checked. The last time she'd given him a headcount, the number had been lower.

"Uh, yeah," Lance confirmed, hoping he hadn't just gotten himself in trouble. "There's your five physicist friends, then the three of us, then Keith and Shiro, and . . . Romelle and Allura?"

"Lance, really," Pidge warned him around a tight jaw and shoulders that were suddenly up around her ears. "I don't know if you've noticed, but I am in no mood for –"

"Romelle is the girl that Keith saved and Allura's her best friend," Lance explained quickly before Pidge tightened to the point where she exploded. He thought he might have broken her anyway since she paused, her head tilting and her eyebrows scrunching together, her lips flattening into an incredulous line. He heard her take an exaggerated breath.

"You're joking," she said, all emotion gone from her voice. As though she still had to say that line even though she already knew he'd never joke about something like that. Her face went slack. "It's like your whole life is a movie."

"I just found out yesterday," Lance continued, not sure what his words were going to do to help but something shivery in his chest was forcing him to speak. "Keith and I were in this coffeeshop when Allura came in with Romelle and –"

"Stop talking," Pidge cut him off, disgusted. "That's ridiculous." Lance obediently clicked his teeth shut. Pidge had her head in her hands now, elbows on the table, a portrait of a long, frustrated night followed up by a little too much reality distortion from Lance this morning. Lance reminded himself that he absolutely should not put a hand on her shoulder.

"So," Pidge breathed, talking to the table. "You discovered you all knew each other yesterday, Keith probably talked Allura into forgiving you, and now you're telling me that you purposefully asked for Keith and Allura to be in the same room with you at the same time?" Pidge lowered her shoulders incrementally as she thought about that. As she sorted through all the data that Lance had just given her. "At Hunk's _birthday party_?"

"Well when I invited them to come I thought it would actually be a party," Lance defended himself and simultaneously put himself into new danger. "I can call and cancel if you want me to."

"No, no," Pidge said, shaking her head as she lifted it, spreading her hands out across the table. "I think I want to be there for that. And here I thought _we_ were being masochistic today." Lance heard her murmur the last bit under her breath. The timer rang before he'd decided if he were going to say anything about it, forcing him out of the conversation in order to pull Hunk's skillet out of the oven, a beautiful, fragrant pastry bubbled up high in the middle of it.

"Was that the timer?" Hunk brought himself back into the room just as Lance was coming out of the kitchen with the skillet.

"Ack!" Lance exclaimed, watching as the gorgeous puff popped open in a flush of steam and deflated in his hands before he'd had a chance to set the thing down on the table. He froze lest he cause more damage, eyes wide in guilt as he watched Hunk's reaction. "Hunk! I'm sorry! What did I do?"

Whatever he'd done to the pastry, it actually rewarded Lance with the first genuine smile from Hunk that he'd seen in a long time. And he heard Pidge snickering from the table too. Lance didn't trust himself to move, afraid that he would break whatever was going on here.

"It's a Dutch baby, Lance," Hunk explained, nodding toward the table, an invitation for Lance to put it down. "You didn't do anything; it's supposed to sink like that."

And even though Pidge had been in a rush when she arrived, she didn't say a word as Hunk doctored the weirdly named pancake thing with berry compote and powdered sugar. She held her peace as he dished it up with eggs and sausage on the side. And she ate every bite on her plate with dedicated enjoyment while Lance watched them both. If he didn't know about yesterday, if he hadn't been here before breakfast was on the table, he could have pretended that this was an ordinary Saturday. One like the dozens of others where the three of them had sat at this table and eaten breakfast together, or dinner, or worked on homework or electronics or a crowded combination of them all. He hoped that the JPL thing wouldn't sour any of the future memories they would make together. That there wouldn't be a before and after, separated by quiet tension. He hoped that their disappointment and his relief would level out sometime in the very near future.

When breakfast was over, Lance ushered his friends out the door with the assurance that he didn't mind cleaning up after them and thanks for the food, it was marvelous even if it did have a strange name. He exchanged a meaningful look with Pidge as she was leaving. She was going to give Hunk the birthday he deserved if it killed her. And Lance already knew that Hunk would pretend to enjoy it if it killed him. And hopefully, at some point, they would both not need to try so hard to make it happy. But until that happened, Lance intended on doing what he could to help them.

He thought about his own dedication to other people's happiness as he washed up the dishes. How he was preparing to settle himself between Keith and Allura as a best friend and boyfriend and how it might take some getting used to, but with time and effort, he thought it would be the same as Pidge and Hunk getting used to not going to JPL like they expected. And how someday it would feel as though it could not have turned out any other way. Lance had known that something big was happening; he'd talked about it with Hunk last Monday morning before taking Keith to court. Something huge was going to change. Now that change had happened, and even though Lance hadn't pegged what it would be, he had been anticipating that something massive was going to shift his life. And he was going to run with it, just like everyone else was doing around him. But first he was going to wash the sheets and towels. He had planned to skip it, but looking out his window at the snow made him want to procrastinate the long walk to the store for just a few more minutes. So sheet washing was back on the schedule.

Well, he was going to wash Hunk's sheets at least. His still smelled a bit like Keith, and even though Lance had firmly decided on moving forward for the sake of everyone including himself, he didn't see the harm in holding on to just that tiny thing for a few more days, or however long the scent would last on his pillow. Ease the transition a little.

Lance stripped Hunk's bed and threw all the laundry together into one of the big mesh bags that Hunk had specifically for this kind of thing. Then he indulged in kicking the floppy bundle all the way down the stairs instead of carrying it, his inner ten-year-old enjoying watching the amoebic mass flipping over itself through three entire stories while he justified his decision in that it was actually safer since he couldn't see the stairs if he had everything in his arms. Besides, he was going to wash it anyway, right?

He regained his maturity on the first floor, scooping up the bag and carrying it properly into the laundry room, where he sighed at the sight out of the windows. It wasn't snowing, but it was yet another gray and dreary January day. Windy, of course. Probably the bitter kind of cold that would partially freeze his blood while he walked, making his legs feel weird and tingly for hours after he got back. The closest grocery store that had what he needed was still almost six miles away, and the more Lance thought about that, the more convicted he became that he had to find a ride somehow for the sake of time and potential hypothermia. Hunk's car was gone already, six miles in a different direction. Allura had a car, but Lance wondered if that would be too much to ask her to come to a party almost nine hours early so she could drive her stranded boyfriend to the grocery store. Lance didn't want to start that way. He'd have to suck it up and try that Uber thing that Pidge had installed on his phone even though he wasn't keen on the idea of strangers picking him up and taking him somewhere. But it would be warmer, and he wouldn't have to carry everything so far. And it might get him home early enough that he could meet up with Hunk and Pidge at the Museum.

Tucking the laundry detergent under his arm, Lance dashed back up the stairs to get his wallet and phone and see how that app worked. He'd already written out the list of what he'd need, but he went through it again in his head as he walked down the hall from the stairwell. Plantains, but he needed bananas too, chicken, they already had the rice. He'd have to double check the flour and sugar.

Distracted, he let himself back in to the apartment, nodding as he ticked off each ingredient and when he'd need it during preparations, murmuring them out loud as he stepped through the door, where he immediately registered unexpected movement and sound that threw his heart into his throat and right out of his mouth.

"Rainbow sherbet and Sprite and _what the hell?_"

Lance dropped the detergent, shocked to find someone in his apartment, though he was certain he'd left it empty and he'd only been gone a few minutes. His muscles jammed together as his brain and body fought with each other. His body was still working on the 'enter the apartment' programming, which conflicted with the frantic new spark of, 'get out of here now!'

"It's just me!" The movement and voice came together to form a word, then an image of a dark-haired boy in black jeans and a maroon sweatshirt, hands extended in peaceable fashion, and eyes that were too large on his face.

"Keith, you scared me to death!" Lance squawked, his heart rate downshifting. The hand that had been holding the laundry soap pressed against Lance's chest as he looked between Keith standing in his kitchen and his dropped detergent. Fortunately, the fall hadn't caused the lid to pop off. Lance was embarrassed enough. Had he screamed? He couldn't remember. He really hoped he hadn't. What was Keith even doing here? Not that Lance could be anything other than uncomfortably delighted to see him, but he had to wonder what brought Keith to his apartment. And when? Lance had only been gone a few minutes, how had they missed each other in the hall?

"You left the door unlocked," Keith said, as if that were an explanation. "I figured you hadn't gone far and thought it'd be ok to let myself in. I . . .didn't mean to scare you." As he talked, Keith walked toward Lance, glancing at the detergent on the floor, but Lance darted too quickly and picked it up before Keith could.

Lance tried to take a deep breath to calm down, but it wasn't every day that people just appeared in his apartment. It didn't help that he hadn't been planning on seeing anyone until much later today; he thought he'd be alone. It also didn't help that Keith sort of took his breath away just by looking at him.

"It … is ok, right?" Keith pressed, and Lance saw him as he must have looked when he realized that he'd have to move again, that whatever foster family he was staying with had made the decision that they couldn't handle him anymore and wanted him gone. He stood uncertainly, awkwardly between the front door and the table, wondering if he'd made some kind of unfixable mistake, wondering if he'd been wrong about being allowed in this space now that everything was over. Lance took another breath, knowing that Keith was misinterpreting Lance's surprise, because being unwanted was Keith's default setting.

"Of course it's ok," Lance told him, rearranging his features so he could smile, finally taking the final steps into his own apartment and closing the door behind him, needing to reassure Keith that this was one place where he would be accepted, all the time. "You're always welcome, Keith."

His words made Keith smile, a rare and beautiful thing. That's right, Keith. You know I'm telling you the truth. It's ok to smile. God, you're pretty when you smile. Lance forced himself to swallow, then move, trying to be natural in his own environment. Keith is welcome here. So am I. And we can coexist here together; we've done it before.

"So where's Shiro?" Lance asked Keith, just so they could talk, so they wouldn't be standing there staring at each other. Lance made his way to the hall closet to replace the detergent, grabbing a couple dryer sheets while he was there so he could take them down with him later. Natural. Keith followed him to answer the question.

"He's working today," Keith said, sounding suspiciously guilty. "There's a pile of stuff that needs to get done since he missed so many hours last week." Oh, that's where the guilt came from. Keith was still feeling bad that he'd demanded so much care and attention, forced so many people to rearrange their lives for him. Still felt as though he didn't quite deserve it. The emotion didn't stop as Keith made eye contact with Lance, only deepened. "You probably have a ton to catch up on too, don't you?"

Lance shrugged it off. "No more than usual, but that's tomorrow's schedule," he dismissed lightly. "Today my biggest worry is getting to Mi Mexico grocery store on 59th and Rockwell."

The response puzzled Keith. Lance could see him process both the name and the address, but it did the trick of calling Keith's attention away from his unwarranted guilt. "You know anyone with a car?" Lance asked him.

"Yeah," Keith responded, straightening, coming back into himself. "I've got Shiro's. Do you . . . I can drive you, if you want."

"That would be great, if you have time," Lance acknowledged, relieved and happy. This was a million times better than an Uber. Keith shrugged.

"That's why I came over," Keith said. "To see if you needed any help." For some reason, Lance didn't think Keith was telling the whole truth here. Not that he was lying, just that he was holding something back. Lance suspected it had something to do with the prospect of staying alone in Shiro's apartment all day while he was at work, how that would be too new and lonely and strange. Lance knew he'd feel like that if he were in Keith's position. He'd want any excuse to not stay home alone too. And now neither of them had to be alone, and Lance could spend the entire day with Keith. Perfect. Sort of.

"I need all the help I can get," Lance told him, genuine. "This birthday really needs to go well, so I'm glad you're here."

"Huh?" Keith asked, looking confused again, but no longer self-conscious, no longer worried. Lance slipped his phone, wallet, and list into his pockets before grabbing both their coats.

"I'll tell you on the way," he promised.

As Keith drove, Lance filled him in on what had happened last night, starting with the internship position itself and how much work his friends had put into their application. He went through it all, the Metallica, the missing radio, how both Hunk and Pidge were still in denial, not talking about it, forcing themselves to keep going like it hadn't affected them at all. How he felt like such a jerk for being relieved that they wouldn't be moving away and now felt extremely responsible for making sure that the party was an uplifting, positive experience to take everyone's minds off the disappointment.

Lance hadn't really meant to put in that last part. His feelings about the internship weren't important at all, but Keith was so quietly attentive through the whole thing that it seemed so safe to tell him. And it made Lance feel so much better to finally confess about it, sitting there in the passenger seat of the Altima. Keith drove Shiro's car with casual ease, eyes on the road, but Lance still knew that he held Keith's complete attention. He continued to listen as they walked through the icy parking lot of the store, silently grabbing a cart for Lance while he unburdened himself to Keith about what a jerk he was for wanting his friends to fail.

"How awful is that?" Lance burst out at the end. "I shouldn't be happy about this when they're so upset."

"That's not it," Keith told him, looking around the unfamiliar aisles of the store. It wasn't too busy for a Saturday morning, but the design felt crowded and close. "You aren't happy because they're disappointed; you just wanted to stay together. But I see your point on making the party extra special. What's the plan?"

"I'm making dinner," Lance started, then realized how completely boring that sounded. "It's just this Cuban thing that my mom made all the time, but it's one of Hunk's favorites and I don't make it very often. And I'm going to try and make a hummingbird cake."

"Hummingbird cake?" Keith repeated, in exactly the same tone of voice that Lance had used when he'd learned about it. It didn't even sound like cake – it was full of bananas and pineapple. The most tropical dessert that Lance could find that was still cake-like enough to stick candles in.

"That'll be new," Lance admitted. "I've never made a cake before, but how hard could it be? Then we somehow have to convince Hunk and Pidge to go through with their radio test. They were so excited and went to all that trouble to get their ham radio licenses. But we'll have to look around for the radio. I can't find it, and I'm a little worried that Hunk took it apart yesterday. Do you think you could put it back together if he did?"

"I . . ." Keith paused, overwhelmed. 

"Hunk said you put the dial in," Lance reminded him.

"Sure, the dial. They did all the hard, technical stuff," Keith protested. Lance was ready to let it go; they didn't even know if the radio were in pieces or not yet, and he didn't want to push Keith too hard. He added canned pineapple and Sprite to their cart, moving on to the produce when Keith seemed to make up his mind about something.

"I'll try," Keith said, with such determination in his voice that Lance melted a little inside. The way Keith spoke reminded Lance that having friends was a relatively new thing for him, that he wasn't sure how it worked, and he wasn't used to any of this.

"That's more than enough," Lance emphasized, wanting him to understand that it was the attempt, the thought, that would be appreciated even if he didn't succeed. And it might be completely fine. Hunk might have just moved the radio to his closet or something and there would be no assembly necessary.

The rest of their shopping adventure was slightly less intense, and extremely enjoyable for Lance. He showed Keith the difference between bananas and plantains as he put both into the cart. They debated on how many chickens it would take to feed twelve people – Lance's generous Cuban 'everyone needs to have enough to eat' combating with Keith's much more conservative 'six chickens is way too many. When was the last time you ate an entire half a chicken?' They settled on three, though Lance was more than certain that Hunk at least could eat half a chicken and Keith was certain that they still had one too many.

They paused in the baking aisle when a tiny woman stopped Lance, one look at him sufficient for her to assume correctly that he was both tall enough for what she needed and could speak her language well enough for her to ask. She needed help reaching a bottle of almond extract high on a top shelf. Her Spanish was languid and sweet, as rich as chocolate to Lance, and he smiled as he handed her the extract with a fond, "_Aquí tienes, abuelita_," knowing that even though she wasn't _his_ grandmother, she wouldn't really mind if he called her that.

She responded in kind, calling him her son, "_Gracias, mijo_." She patted his arm before going on her way, and Lance watched her for a second before returning his attention to birthday candles. Though he noticed Keith staring at him oddly.

"What?" He asked, feeling heat rise in his face for no other reason than Keith was looking at him. He quickly turned toward the candles, deciding on whether he wanted the regular kind or the ones that wouldn't go out no matter how hard Hunk blew on them.

"Nothing," Keith said, unexpected warmth in his tone. "It's just cool, watching you do stuff like that. I like hearing you speak your own language."

Lance made a strange huffing sound. It was weird to be admired for something so simple, especially by Keith.

"Did you know her?" Keith wanted to know, almost as if he could tell how embarrassed Lance felt.

"No," Lance said dismissively, reaching for a pack of normal candles. Be normal. He began pulling the cart away, candles secure.

"Oh," Keith sounded surprised. "It looked like you did."

"Well, we're Latino, you know? That means we're all family in one way or another. You could walk up to anyone in this store and call them grandma, or sister, or cousin, and they'd probably just go with it." Lance hadn't meant the statement to have the impact it did, but Keith stopped walking, grabbing on to the cart as if he needed something to steady him. Lance realized what he'd said, what it meant for Keith who had grown up without anything even close to a family.

"You too," Lance reminded him, which made Keith turn toward him, looking wounded and hesitantly hopeful. "You're part of our family now, like it or not."

Keith gave a little bark of a laugh that had too much of a different emotion in it. And even though Lance knew he shouldn't, he reached out to put a hand on Keith's arm anyway, making sure that Keith understood that Lance meant what he said. Keith stared at him, eyes unquestionably violet, and huge, surprisingly innocent even after all Keith had been through.

"Lance?" Keith began, though Lance had nothing to communicate in words here. Having a hand on Keith again spread warmth all down that side of his body, and he fought with himself on taking another step closer. Only friends, Lance told himself, removing his hand with dedicated effort. If I want him to stay in my life, we have to keep it at friends. Don't make it weird.

"Come on," Lance invited, pushing the cart toward the frozen aisle. "Let's see what kind of sherbet this place has so we can make punch."

By the time they'd gathered everything on Lance's list and were placing it on the belt at the cashier, Keith was shaking his head and making little frustrated noises to the point where Lance had to look up from double checking that he'd remembered everything to see what was going on.

"What's up, Keith?" He asked, slightly concerned.

"Nothing," Keith denied, but then decided that he was going to say what he was thinking anyway. "How the hell were you going to get all this back to the apartment?"

"Carry it?" Lance answered, but his voice tapered off as Keith gestured to all the groceries, looking at him with one eyebrow raised as though he were patiently waiting for Lance to realize something. Like how there was no way one person could carry three whole chickens, six liters of soda, two gallons of sherbet, and all the other little pieces of birthday that lay scattered among the larger items.

"Six miles in the snow?" Keith forced the insanity of his plan onto him.

"I was going to try that Uber thing," Lance defended himself, not particularly sure he was pronouncing Uber correctly. "Pidge put it on my phone, but then you showed up just in time. Thanks."

"Next time just call me," Keith instructed, as if that were the most obvious thing in the world. As if Lance had ever called him and actually got him to answer. But he wasn't going to point that out while Keith already looked insulted about it.

"I will," Lance promised, which seemed to satisfy Keith. They piled the bags into the trunk of the Nissan and were already on the way back home before Keith spoke again. Lance stared out the window, waiting for the lake to come back into view, deliberately scanning for it so he wouldn't keep sneaking glances at Keith. It was enough that he was sitting next to him, a presence that excited and soothed him at the same time.

"So, um, when's your birthday?" Keith asked out of nowhere, giving Lance an excuse to turn his head back Keith's direction.

"July 28th," he answered, glad for a summer birthday when Chicago attempted to mimic Cuba a little in its weather patterns. Half drowning its citizens in humidity and heat. Last year, Lance had tried going to the lake front, to the sandy patches around it, pretending it was the beach. It kind of worked. "You?"

"Shiro says it's October 23rd," Keith replied without much fanfare, and he switched the subject back to Lance almost immediately, though at this point, Lance felt slightly crushed. Had Keith even had a birthday before Shiro found him? "Are birthdays different in Cuba? What kind of stuff did you do?"

"No, they're pretty much the same," Lance answered, trying to shake off these dark hints that Keith kept casually throwing out there, that he didn't seem to notice drenched Lance in icy sorrow. Instead Lance forced himself to think of his own childhood, something he could share with Keith by remembering cakes and candles, piñatas, and the one year they had roasted a whole pig. "_Everybody_ comes. There were a lot of years where I didn't know hardly anyone who showed up, and when I was younger, I was put to bed way earlier than my own party ended."

Keith made a small sound of amusement at that, pulling up to a red light. "Shiro took me to the air field once," he volunteered with obvious enthusiasm, sharing one of his favorite memories. "We watched the military jets coming and going with binoculars behind the fence. I don't think we were really supposed to be there, but no one tells Shiro what to do."

Lance internally thanked Shiro, again, for giving Keith a glimpse of what normal kids can expect on birthdays. Then he decided that this year, he'd give Keith a Cuban birthday. The kind where the whole neighborhood shows up. He'd roast him a pig; Hunk would _love_ to have an excuse to do that. The plan hitched in his mind when he remembered how many months away October was, but he smoothed it over quickly. Hunk and Pidge were staying. Keith was pulling into a guest parking lot at the apartment complex with a confidence that meant he was getting used to being here. In nine months, they'd have settled into routine. They would know how they fit together and be closer than ever. It was already easing into place.

Together, Keith and Lance managed to get all the shopping bags through the snow, into the elevator, and up to the apartment in one trip. Though Keith muttered the entire time about how Lance was incapable of asking for help and what was up with that anyway? Lance pretended he didn't hear him. If he'd really needed help, he would have asked for it. But the "need" threshold was so high. He was used to just figuring things out on his own.

They separated only for a few minutes so Lance could run down to the laundry room to switch the sheets over to the dryer. When he came back, he showed Keith some of the pictures Hunk and Pidge were sending from the Museum. Hunk standing for scale beside the massive T-Rex, Sue. Whale bones suspended from a ceiling in a dark room. It reminded Lance that he hadn't taken a photo yet of Keith – a problem he remedied on the spot by snapping about five candids of Keith emptying out the contents of the grocery bags onto the table.

"What are you doing?" Keith demanded, blinking at him.

"Pictures, remember?" Lance said, grabbing one more now that Keith was actually looking at him. He checked the phone, curious to see whether Keith's peculiar eye color would show up properly in photos. Disappointingly, it seemed not to. They just looked nondescript and sort of gray. "My family wants me to send more pictures."

Keith shook his head, still unconvinced that anyone would want to see a picture of him. Lance just smiled at him, wishing he could tell him how important he was, what he meant to Lance. But that was taking things a little too far, and Lance did not want to ruin the good vibe they had going. So he went to work. There were chickens and sweet potatoes to roast, a cake to bake, a radio to find.

Through all the prep, Keith remained an arm's length away. Sometimes at the table, watching Lance do one-person jobs. Other times he fetched and carried, holding tape for streamers, blowing up some balloons. They put on some music, ingredients disappearing from the table as Lance transformed them into their final forms. They finally found the radio, stuffed in a box underneath Hunk's bed, thankfully still in one piece. Lance set it up as the centerpiece on the table, on top of the galaxy-themed tablecloth he'd bought online. 

They talked as they worked. About Hunk, who Keith didn't know much about but wanted to know more. About music, which Keith also didn't seem to have an opinion on. The boy was like a blank page, ready to accept Lance's commentary on just about everything. They texted pictures back and forth with Pidge, and Lance noticed that their expressions seemed less strained as the day went on. They looked to be truly enjoying themselves, though Lance had to be careful not to let Keith see some of the things that Pidge texted once she found out that Lance was alone in the apartment with Keith. From some of her suggestions, Lance was certain that Hunk hadn't filled her in on all the details yet. He'd have to figure out how to do it soon, before she came home, or it could ruin all the good that was happening today.

Breaks happened as both Lance and Keith had to pause to accept phone calls. Krolia contacted Keith, giving him an update on how things were going with his financial paperwork. Keith pulled Lance into the conversation for a few minutes to discuss Keith's health and when it might be appropriate to have a medical exam performed. Lance had no idea what Keith's bloodwork had to do with finance, but he said it would probably be best to schedule this after Keith was finished taking prescribed medication. That conversation finished with Krolia promising to take Keith to lunch sometime soon, and Lance speculating that if Shiro hadn't beat her to it, Krolia would have adopted Keith herself.

Lance's call came from Dr. Delacroix, who informed him that she had spoken with Dr. Coran, and they were both going to talk to the College Dean about letting Lance shadow at the ER for credit if that was something he wanted to do.

"Yes!" Keith hissed at him, though Lance remained undecided. He stood there in the kitchen in the middle of shredding three chicken carcasses. Could he really handle the pressure of the ER? Lance glanced at Keith, who nodded encouragingly to him. "Do it," he mouthed.

"Lance?" Dr. Delacroix checked to make sure he was still there. She had expected him to be faster in answering.

"Ok," Lance burst out, wondering if this was something he could back out of once he'd started. Somehow, he didn't think so. Keith flashed him that knee-buckling smile as he agreed, which meant that Lance only barely heard the rest of what Dr. Delacroix said. Something about a schedule. He'd have to confirm by email later.

"How come everyone thinks I can do this except me?" Lance wondered out loud, surprised that he sounded breathless, as though he'd just made some sort of crossroads deal with the devil. 

"I don't know," Keith mused as he poured Lance a cup of coffee that Lance had begged him to make. The good, rich black stuff that tasted like lightning and home and something else that Lance hadn't bothered placing yet. "Because the guy that found me in that apartment seemed pretty damn confident about what he could do and completely saved my life, so it doesn't really make sense, does it?"

Lance braced himself on the counter, overcome by Keith's encouragement. He wished they could still touch each other the way they once had, so easily, so often. Right now all he wanted to do was lean his head against Keith's chest. He was standing close enough to do it. He was right there.

"Lance?" Keith said his name questioningly. He did it a lot, that unasked question that started and ended with Lance's name. It probably meant something different every time he did it, but lately it sounded too much like an invitation, and Lance needed to move away quickly before he did something he would regret.

"I'll be right back," Lance excused himself, knowing that even if Keith thought he was acting weird, it was nothing compared to how he could embarrass himself if he didn't take a few minutes out of this room. "I'm going to check the mail. Then we'll do the cake, ok?"

"Sure," Keith said, backing off, and Lance felt something slip between them. He awkwardly escaped to the hallway, bringing his phone with him so he could ask Hunk to tell Pidge that Lance was dating Allura now so she could knock it off with all the images she was putting into Lance's head of how he and Keith could be spending their time alone together right now. Then he rubbed his hands over his face to scrub his mind of those exact, rather tempting images. He even leaned against the cold of the metal mailboxes for a moment, gaining his composure for both returning to Keith and joining Dr. Delacroix in the ER. What _had_ happened to her last student? He wondered if she'd even tell him if he asked.

He grabbed the contents of the slot without really looking at it, folding his hand around it and jogging back up the stairs, ready to keep going. Keith looked up from where he was cleaning the counter of chicken juices, but didn't say anything as Lance joined him again. Lance smiled at him before thumbing quickly through the mail. There was never a lot. On Saturdays, a huge clump of coupons for the local restaurants and things showed up without fail, and for a second, Lance thought that was the only thing that had come. But no, there was one envelope in the chaos of loose-leaf flyers.

"Oh my God," Lance whispered in astonishment, recognizing the NASA logo in the top left corner. It was addressed to Hunk, except his real, full name was typed formally in the exact center. It looked so strange to see Hunk's true name, apostrophes and all.

"Lance?" Keith noticed that Lance stood shocked in the entryway, and Lance tightened his grip on the coupons so he wouldn't drop something else in front of Keith today. "What is it?"

"It's from JPL," Lance tried to raise his voice enough that it could actually be heard, but it was hard to say anything while his insides were twisting up so violently inside him. "A letter for Hunk."

"An acceptance letter?" Keith checked, hurrying over to inspect the envelope himself. "Do you think Pidge got one too?"

"Probably – they applied as a team," Lance spoke words that he didn't even hear himself say. "You're late," he said scoldingly to the unobtrusive, plain white envelope, his voice infuriatingly choked up. "You caused so much trouble."

"Should we open it?" Keith speculated, but Lance didn't need to. The unsuccessful candidates had been notified via a post script at the bottom of a website, unworthy of the cost of postage. Lance knew what this piece of paper said. Congratulations. You're a wizard. We're bringing you into our program and your muggle roommate can't come.

"No," Lance denied quietly, leaning the envelope against the radio on the table. "I'm not opening someone else's birthday present."

"Lance, you ok?"

"Of course I'm ok," Lance said, a little too fiercely, but he needed to make himself believe it. They were going to be so happy. They were going to be over the moon, almost literally. Lance had to be happy along with them. Keith placed a hand on Lance's shoulder, too gently. "I'm such a jerk."

Keith pulled Lance closer, and Lance let him do it. "That's not true," Keith told him, and Lance tried to nod, to accept that, but was finding it difficult. "You're allowed to be happy for them and sad for yourself at the same time." The sophistication of this answer surprised Lance, momentarily distracting him from focusing on his upcoming separation. It made him realize that Keith was holding him, that he was folded up against him. That it was so warm inside his arms. Lance closed his eyes and let himself enjoy it for just a few seconds. He let himself pretend. But he couldn't stay here. The truth was too heavy and dominating. Hunk and Pidge. Keith and Allura.

Romelle.

Reluctantly, so very reluctantly, Lance pushed himself backward, forcing himself to smile at Keith. "Thanks," he said gratefully. Thanks for that memory, that heat, that moment. "Let's make a cake, yeah?"

Lance decided to wait to tell Hunk about the letter. He seemed to genuinely be enjoying himself at the Museum now, and Lance knew if he said anything about it, they would come rushing home. And he didn't want that yet. He wanted to stay with Keith a little longer in this strange bubble, before he knew for certain what was going to happen. Before everything shifted again. He complimented Keith again on the coffee. They made a huge mess with Hunk's electric mixer, and Keith teased Lance about the metric system and how it wasn't on a single one of Hunk's measuring cups.

As far as Lance was concerned, the afternoon could have lasted for the rest of time. Then he'd never know if he were going to be a disappointment or not to Dr. Delacroix. He'd never know what it felt like to help Hunk pack up his things to leave. It would be just Keith, here with him, skeptically dumping an entire can of crushed pineapple into the cake batter, asking him questions about dinner, about his family, about Cuba.

But just as with the court case, time didn't care about Lance's opinion of how fast it should move. All too soon, Keith was pulling on his coat because it was time for him to go pick up Shiro from the office. The text came from Hunk that the Museum was closed, so they were on their way home. In less than an hour, this apartment would be filled with a dozen people.

And in less than a month, Lance would be the only one here.

**Author's Note: I know – a little shorter and sweeter than you're used to. (there also might be more errors. My keyboard has started sticking, so I imagine more typos have weeded their way in where I didn't notice.) But I wanted to give you something, and this seemed a good place to pause for a minute until we get into the party. Where it's going to get tense again. There need to be more pictures taken before I break this group into pieces. **


	30. Interstellar Communication

**Author's Note: Wow, I was interrupted so many times trying to write this chapter. I wrote it way late at night after everyone went to bed. I wrote it during the day with my son watching Paw Patrol next to me (that's not distracting or anything). I wrote it as we drove out of state looking for a new house for my new job. Yeah, over the next month I'm moving and the kids are starting school and blah blah blah, you don't care, I know. . .I'll try not to let it delay the story too much. **

**Chapter Thirty: Interstellar Communication**

Lance would forever classify that night, that party, as the very last evening when his life had been as perfect as he could have hoped for. The dark still pressed against the windows, a draft of the future howling on the balcony, but at the beginning of the evening, the music and light inside the apartment overpowered it almost completely. Dinner spread over the counters, piles of napkins, plates, cups, and cutlery next to three pans of food. The smallest was labeled vegetarian, but the other two were full to the brim with mixed rice, black beans, sweet potatoes, chicken, and plantains. Hunk's largest stock pot held all the Sprite with fizzy dollops of sherbet floating inside.

At the last second, Lance picked up the NASA letter away from the radio. He'd decided somewhere after Keith left and before anyone else came that there could be a chance it didn't contain good news. Hunk should be able to read it without anyone else knowing about it. Lance tucked it underneath the wrapped Cuban spice blend on his desk to wait until he'd decided about when the best time would be to tell Hunk about it. Then he went to answer the door.

Two of the physicists arrived first, and even though Lance asked and received their names, he almost instantly forgot them again. Lance found that physicists had the same sort of look to them – blurred around the edges a little with wide, faraway eyes. Most of the time when he tried to talk to them, he regretted it within a few minutes. They either stared at him with their heads tilted, like little starry puppies, as though they couldn't understand him at all, or they answered a routine, polite question like "how are you?" with their entire proposed theory on atoms in relative space. Once one of them had even tried to prove what he meant by attempting to slam his hand through Lance's coffee table. Lance sent him home with his wrist wrapped tightly in an ACE bandage and begged Hunk to never invite him over again.

These two could have been new to the apartment, or they could have been over many times. Either way, they stood awkwardly in the entryway until Lance ushered them inside with plain, simple instructions on where to leave their coats and wet shoes, inviting them to help themselves to punch. They each ladled up a cupful, and then they all stared at each other in strained, uncomfortable silence with Lance not knowing what to say that wouldn't begin a well-rehearsed TED talk and wondering why it was taking so long for Hunk and Pidge to get back from the Museum.

Fortunately, Hunk and Pidge's arrival less than two minutes later dismantled the silence, bridging the communication gap. They burst through the door in a gust of fresh, cold air and banter, and if it struck them in any way to see the radio pulled out from under the bed and returned to its position of glory in the middle of the table, they pushed right past it, talking nonstop about the Museum and how Lance really needed to join them the next time they went, and hey, how's it going – good to see you at the guests. Hunk did pause long enough to sniff at the air, his face breaking into joy as he recognized the scent of what Lance had cooked. He sped toward the kitchen while Pidge joined their friends at the punch, and they all began talking that unique physics jargon that was more a feeling to Lance than communication. It hummed around his ears like electricity, just the way he liked it to. He let himself relax, making sure to savor how it sounded, how it felt, to have everyone here like this. He let it sink in until it started to hurt, that slight tearing deep inside him as he remembered that these times were going to be over soon. That there was a letter on his desk he needed to tell Hunk about.

Lance was about to join Hunk in the kitchen in order to pull him privately into his room where they could talk about the letter, but the knock on the door forced him to postpone that for a few more minutes. Which was fine. He still wasn't sure when he wanted to tell Hunk about it. Right now, Hunk smiled easily, surrounded by his favorite things, and even though Lance felt more than ninety-eight percent sure that the letter was a good thing, he just didn't want anything in it to ruin the party he'd spent all day putting together. He left the scientists to do what they did best while he fulfilled his role as host and opened the door to the next guest. No, guests – not astrophysicists this time, but they still rendered Lance practically speechless.

"Oh, wow," Lance exclaimed involuntarily right before all the English words he knew went right out of his head, taking in the scene and forgetting completely about parties and space stations, letters and spices. Allura clasped her hands demurely, bowing her head as Lance pulled it together enough to realize that he was rudely standing in the doorway, staring at her.

But how could he not? Her hair plaited back from her temples in what must have been the complicated braid she'd spoken of before, the one she'd worn for their failed date. The dress could have been the same one she'd intended for last week too – a pale blue, simple thing that gained elegance just by being on her person. It buttoned down the front and flared out at her knees, and she wore navy leggings under it that matched her boots. Dangly shooting star earrings hovered at her jawline, swinging with her every movement, and the moment she stepped past the doorway, she would break the record on the amount of makeup that had ever been in the room at once even though she wasn't wearing all that much.

Allura was so captivating that Lance barely registered Romelle standing next to her, even though it was no surprise that they'd arrived together, and Romelle was also a lovely girl. Her outfit was a different kind of simple – a pink-ish turtleneck and dark blue jeans, the kind with beaded patterns on the back pockets. She'd done her makeup with slightly heightened dramatics. Lance thought there might be something glittery on her cheekbones.

"Lance, who is it? Are you going to let them in or are you waiting for a password or something?" Pidge yelled from somewhere behind him, voice thick with sarcastic goading, breaking him into motion.

"Right – come in," he managed, shepherding them inside. He noticed Romelle scanning the room hopefully, searching for Keith, practically going up on tiptoe as if that would help. "I'm glad you made it."

"You sure?" Allura asked, removing her famous white coat. Lance took it from her while he decided what his face should look like in response to her question. "You looked so surprised to see us I thought maybe you'd changed your mind about your invitation."

Satisfied that Keith wasn't hiding under the dining room table, Romelle mentally returned to Allura's side, watching the exchange with renewed interest. Lance wondered if Allura had told her everything about him yet. From the way she stared, critically sizing him up as he also reached for her coat, he thought so. He felt as if he were being graded.

"I don't normally open my door to this much beauty," Lance explained, thinking he may have gotten an upper hand somehow as his comment caused Allura's eyes to seek out the carpet again, smiling.

"Hey!" Pidge squawked indignantly behind him, but he didn't give her the satisfaction of looking at her. He kept his eyes on Allura, waiting for the moment when she'd lift her head again.

"Oh, don't pretend to be insulted," Lance called carelessly over his shoulder to Pidge, who frequently, passionately, and disgustedly ranted about girls at the university who spent more time in front of mirrors than on their homework. She felt they were a waste of resources, and if Lance had ever dared to suggest that Pidge was beautiful, she would have groaned, laughed, or punched Lance in the arm. Probably all those reactions, actually, in that order. However, he thought he'd better smooth over what he'd said in case he had hurt her feelings somehow. "I don't open the door for you at all; you let yourself in."

A possessive arm twined around Lance's as a tiny body leaned against his side. Pidge coming over to protect him while she determined what was going on. Romelle wasn't the only one gauging character references here. Pidge was on high alert, studying every detail about the new girls with the precision of Sherlock Holmes. Lance felt it best not to move. He wanted to see how Allura and Pidge would mesh. He'd never be comfortable if they didn't get along, but he secretly hoped that Pidge wouldn't be rude on purpose. She'd already had a long day forcing herself to be at her best for Hunk, which might sharpen her tongue and temperament more than was fair for anyone.

"Pidge," Lance invoked her name as an introduction and a plea. "I'd like you to meet Allura and her best friend, Romelle."

Allura smiled, nodding her head like a princess as she was introduced, sophisticated and just the sort of charming that usually made Pidge pretend to gag. Romelle also smiled, though less artistically, more guarded. Or maybe that was just how Lance saw them. Pidge pressed tighter into his side, staring rather critically at the taller girls. She wasn't intimidated, was she? He knew she wasn't jealous. That didn't happen – not to Pidge.

"Huh," Pidge exhaled, unblinking. "So you really do exist after all."

"Pardon?" Allura began, her beautiful features tugging together into confusion. Lance used his proximity to Pidge to give her a slight warning jab with his elbow. Behave. Don't make this awkward for everyone. We haven't even started yet, and I worked too hard on this party for you to ruin it. He felt Pidge tense, but not for very long.

"The way Lance described you, I figured you were either imaginary or he was exaggerating." What are you doing, Pidge? Now Pidge took a step away from Lance so she could turn her face up toward him. He looked down to meet her eyes, half afraid until he saw them. There was something like pain woven into the hazel, a bittersweet, happy, sorrow. A look Lance remembered on his mother right before she would comment on time and its passing. How Lance was taller than she was. How he was growing up too fast. How she wished she could go back to when he was younger. A hurt that came from natural change or broken expectations. Even though Lance recognized the expression, it was rather surprising on Pidge. "But I guess he was telling the truth."

A bit of tension released inside Lance, and he used the sudden relief to pull Pidge tight against him again. Thank you, Katie, he said with the squeeze. Thanks for going with this, for the support. And even though Allura is here with us now, it won't actually change anything between us. Promise.

"Let me take those," Pidge offered, freeing Lance of both the girls' coats to add them to the growing pile by the balcony door. The guest count for tonight meant that they needed every chair, including the desk chairs in their rooms and the camp chair that normally held the winter gear. Plus, the heap of warm things by the balcony helped block the draft. "Go say happy birthday to Hunk and get some food. Lance made it."

Romelle and Allura were holding hands now, still unsure in the new environment, watching Pidge shuffle away with the coats. Lance felt as though he suddenly had permission to get close to them. As he took a step, Allura turned toward him, looking bewildered but not angry. She looked as though she wanted some sort of explanation for that exchange.

"Pidge?" She repeated the name, not unkindly. Lance nodded, his gaze following Pidge around the coffee table as she went to rejoin Hunk. She seemed to need physical comfort today as she stepped right into Hunk's personal space. Without even looking, Hunk put an arm lightly around her shoulders.

"She's like my sister," Lance explained, hoping that this information would let Allura know everything she needed to about their relationship and why Pidge acted the way she did. He didn't want to say that the introduction had gone better than he'd expected, that Pidge had been almost unnaturally nice to Allura, that it wasn't typical, that she was on her best behavior. Fortunately, it seemed Lance wouldn't need to.

"Ah," Allura answered with the sound, letting Lance know that she did understand. At least, he thought that's what it meant.

"Did you want some food?" Lance offered just for something to do besides stand here at the door.

"It does smell amazing," Allura granted, crystalline eyes twinkling. Romelle nodded.

"Come on," Lance invited, taking the hand that Romelle wasn't holding. He thought that the girls would separate, but it seemed Romelle gripped tighter as they began moving toward the kitchen. He wanted her to let go; he could barely handle Allura right now, but how was he supposed to ask for that? The only person she knew in this room was Allura, and honestly, Allura was in a new space too. New apartment, new people, new boyfriend. It was all strange. It looked like Lance would have to take care of both of them for the foreseeable future and do his best not to make it awkward. Something sarcastic inside him wished him good luck.

Even though Hunk was the guest of honor at this party, he'd automatically taken up the serving station in the kitchen. Which was probably his favorite place in the apartment anyway. The scientists had already been supplied with food and were seated at the table when Lance brought Allura and Romelle to the kitchen doorway. Behind him, there was another knock on the door, but Pidge went to answer it this time, leaving Lance free to see what Hunk would think about meeting Allura in real life instead of listening to Lance talk about her. The second introduction challenge of the evening, though there would be no danger of Hunk saying something insulting or impolite.

"Ladies, meet Hunk," Lance declared, making sure to say Hunk's name a little louder than necessary to draw his attention. "Engineer, astrophysicist, winner of the best roommate award two years running, and officially the oldest resident of the apartment as of today."

"Hey," Hunk said as he turned, the exclamation phasing from good-natured welcome to confusion as he saw that Lance was attached to two girls. Lance told Hunk their names, making sure Hunk could tell which was which. Ever gracious, Hunk set down his serving spoon momentarily in order to shake hands, smiling warmly at everyone, all the melancholy from yesterday either dissolved or pushed down too far to notice. He expressed how nice it was to finally meet Allura and he took Romelle's hand in both of his, encasing her in some kind of wordless exchange that seemed to make sense to them. It eased Romelle enough that she didn't feel it necessary to latch onto Allura the moment Hunk let her go. Lance thought he'd like to ask about that later – what exactly Hunk had done in order for that to happen, though it was likely some kind of empathetic trick that only Hunk could do.

Together, Lance and Hunk filled plates and set the girls up at the table, exchanging pleasantries the entire way. Comments on the food, gentle questions about how everyone in the apartment fit with each other. Meanwhile, Pidge escorted the next group of scientists, now free of coats and hats, toward the kitchen. Lance hoped there would be enough for everyone. He knew he shouldn't have let Keith talk him out of that extra chicken.

The front of the apartment was growing crowded now, brightly lit and full of people, music, and scent. It was actually starting to look and feel like a party. Almost. Lance still felt unnaturally out of place and unbalanced. He didn't know the scientists. He barely knew Allura, and still wasn't sure how he should act around her. Romelle just made him uncomfortable. And underneath was the pressing ache of how it was all ending, changing in a way he hadn't wanted and wasn't ready for. That knowledge forced Lance to look at everything extra careful, focus on all the little details. Pidge's laughter. Hunk humming along to the music. Lance stretched his consciousness as wide as possible in order to fill himself with these memories, collecting them like a harvest to last for an indefinite social winter. He moved about the room with his phone, snapping pictures the same way he'd seen children dart for a coin dropped on the street.

He caught one of Hunk standing at the table, one large hand resting gently on his custom-built radio, a soft, pensive look on his face, and he decided that he shouldn't keep the letter a secret anymore. Before going to Hunk, Lance tucked his phone into his back pocket and dipped his head between Allura and Romelle, knowing that he should probably be sitting next to them but not able to bring himself to be still yet. He softly placed his hand on Allura's shoulder, leaning close so she would hear him over the music and physics chatter.

"Doing all right here?" He asked, just like he always did when he checked on her at the donation center. Allura delicately set down her fork in order to reach up and place her cool hand over his, turning a little so she could see him.

"It's wonderful," she acknowledged. "I had no idea you were such a good cook."

"Don't be too impressed," he warned, though part of him was pleased that she was enjoying it. "I'm a one-dish wonder. Hunk usually does all the cooking around here, but seeing as it's his birthday, I gave him the night off."

"How is he doing, by the way?" Allura elegantly shifted topics with Lance, keeping her hand on his, splitting his attention between her words and the smooth sensation of her fingers. "It seems you were able to cheer him up."

"He's putting up a good front," Lance revealed. "Pidge too. I was actually going to steal him away for a few minutes to talk to him about it, but I didn't want you to think I was abandoning you."

"No, of course not," Allura accepted his plan. "Please do take care of him. We're all right; aren't we?" She leaned in closer towards Romelle, including her in the conversation.

"Sure," Romelle responded, not as energetically as Allura. Her lower lip twisted slightly after she said it, her teeth pinning it that way as she looked at the table. Lance understood the expression and took pity on her.

"Keith _is_ coming," he answered the question that Romelle desperately wanted to ask but didn't want to be rude about. "He was here earlier to help with the party prep, but he had to go pick up Shiro from work. I'm . . . not exactly sure how long that's supposed to take, but he's coming."

Romelle's sky-blue eyes lifted to Lance, full of a sudden acceptance and gratitude. Lance tried not to hate her. Keith's her rescuer, he reminded himself. His voice the only one besides Allura who assured her that David's attack hadn't been her fault. She's a product of how she's been treated, clinging to the last two people in her life that she feels she can trust. Lance forced himself to place his free hand on her shoulder as well, but removed it quickly as he felt her tense. So she wasn't ready to be that accepting. Which was fine. That wasn't something he needed from her.

"Shiro?" Allura questioned, thankfully breaking Lance away and reminding him that up until quite recently, Keith was the only person who called Shiro that.

"Takashi?" Lance threw out his actual name. "Tall guy with a white streak in his hair?" And a perfect robotic arm. But Lance didn't have to go that far; he could see that Allura knew who he was talking about now.

"Oh, Mr. Shirogane," she breathed, nodding as she remembered. "That's right. He was . . . what was he?"

"Keith's case worker," Romelle supplied readily, proving how well-versed she was about Keith's life and acquaintances. Lance couldn't help himself.

"They're brothers now," he revealed, dedicatedly not looking at Romelle as he said it. If he were going to one-up her in this weird game of "who knows more about Keith," he'd better keep his gaze away to not appear too arrogant. Especially since she could probably best him in two sentences. Because they used to _date_. Because she was probably going to end up with Keith _again._ Ugh, stop it. You're not allowed to be jealous about that. You're dating someone else now too and she's awesome. Focus. "The adoption paperwork went through earlier this week."

Romelle's whole face opened in surprise, eyes wide, jaw going slack. She blinked it away, and Lance felt bad for some reason. Like he'd wounded her. He decided he'd better leave before he did something actually damaging.

"You can congratulate them when they get here," Lance offered, squeezing Allura's shoulder to let her know he was leaving them for a bit. At the last second, he quickly kissed her cheek, causing her to raise her shoulder and lean her head toward him. She didn't tighten like Romelle; it was more like she was hugging him in the only way that their current position and timing would allow, an endearing little gesture. "I'll be back as soon as I check on Hunk."

Allura's hand slipped away from his, letting him go, as patient as she had promised she would be. He'd barely stood straight before Romelle leaned in for some private conversation. Lance wondered what she had to say, but wanted to talk to Hunk more than he wanted to find out. At least, for right now.

Luckily for Lance, Pidge was deeply engrossed in an explanation to her science friends about the future of trans-atmospheric remote-controlled devices, so it was easy to pull Hunk away without her noticing. He did it without even speaking. With Hunk all he needed to do was pat him on the arm and jerk his head toward his bedroom. They both slipped to the back without anyone even looking at them.

"What's up, Lance?" Hunk asked as Lance closed his bedroom door, shutting out the noise in the other room. "Oh, hey, congrats about Allura by the way. You were _not _kidding; she is gorgeous." The air was still here, noticeably cooler. Hunk stood near the door, hovering as though he were being pulled back out there. Lance knew they shouldn't stay here very long, that it would be rude, but it was nice to be alone with Hunk for a moment, the way it had been at the beginning. Before Allura. Before even Pidge. "But, uh, where's Keith?"

"Coming," Lance said, though he wondered if that were true. Where were they? He'd call if he thought Keith would answer. What if something happened on the way here? Or worse, what if Lance had done something today that made Keith decide he didn't want to come? But one thing at a time. He'd worry about that later. Right now, it was just Hunk. "I just wanted to give you your birthday gift before you do your radio test."

"Dude, you already cooked my favorite thing." His words may have been protesting, but Hunk looked extremely flattered and pleased that Lance had something for him.

"Yeah well," Lance snatched the wrapped package and letter from his desk. "I thought you could use this." He handed over the spices first while concealing the letter behind his back. "I asked my mom to send it."

Hunk accepted the package with almost reverent care, particularly after Lance mentioned where it had come from, the journey it had taken to get here. He seemed to recognize the feel, the weight and shape of it. "You picked it up for me last weekend," Lance affirmed. "It just made it in time."

"What?" Hunk began the question but didn't finish as he gently folded back the wrappings. What could Lance have possibly asked to be sent from Cuba? What would be there that wouldn't be here? "Oh my . . is this what I think it is?" He held up the tightly packaged, dense, dark red brick.

"I took a little bit of it for dinner," Lance admitted, but Hunk obviously didn't care.

"_That's_ why it tastes like that!" He exclaimed, holding the spice blend up to his face to see if he could smell it through the plastic that secured it. "Here I thought you'd been holding out on me."

"Now you can make it whenever you want. That block should last you . . oh, I don't know, the rest of your life probably. Mom went a little overboard."

"This is awesome. Tell her thanks for me, ok?"

Lance smiled, content that his gift had been well received. But now it was time for the other one. The one he wasn't so sure about. "That's not all," Lance said, not meaning to have his voice come out so quiet.

"Looks like your mom isn't the only one going overboard," Hunk said, his tone heavily implying that Lance had gone too far, but he'd see in a minute that this was a whole different sort of gift. "This is all too much, Lance. Dinner, the party – that _cake_ I saw in the fridge." Hunk stood with the spice block in both hands, as though he wouldn't actually accept anything more, so Lance took it back so it could be swapped out with the letter.

"No, I think it's just what you deserve," Lance managed to say, managed to sound like he meant it. Because he did. Hunk did deserve that internship. He deserved to go to JPL and live out his dreams. Lance had already done it – left Cuba, left his family, the people who loved and missed him, to fulfill his dream of attending a US college and med program. He knew what opening a letter like this felt like. How nerves and hope could burst and then melt into almost overjoyed, excited relief. Now he'd get to know about the other side. What his family and friends at home had felt watching him read.

"Lance," Hunk whispered, rubbing his thumb against the NASA logo on the envelope. He sounded confused and apprehensive.

"It just came today," Lance told him. "I don't know what it says, so I thought you could open it in private. If you want, I can -"

"Stay here," Hunk commanded, which made Lance feel sort of special that Hunk wanted him to witness his discovery of whatever was in that letter. Hunk's hands slid around the edges of the envelope, and it looked so tiny in his grasp. With the delicacy that came from years of turning miniature screwdrivers, Hunk tore neatly into the envelope, slipping the pages from it in the worst slow motion. Lance found himself leaning forward as if that would either speed things up or let him see well enough to read. He swallowed as he watched Hunk's eyes scan the first page.

"Well?" The statement shot out of him as Hunk sank onto his bed, his hand over his mouth. He couldn't stand it anymore. Was he losing his friends or not?

"We made it," Hunk choked out, and Lance could both see and hear all Hunk's faculties slam to a stop and reverse. Here he'd thought they'd been overlooked. Here he'd been so down thinking that they hadn't been good enough. If he'd just skipped that one day looking at the website. If the mail service from Los Angeles County had been just a little bit faster. All that Metallica-coated misery could have been avoided. Hunk handed over the pages so he could put both hands on his knees, curling over, his shoulders shaking in some strange mixture of laughing and trying hard not to cry. "We actually made it."

Lance's own vision blurred over the paragraphs, but he blinked enough that he read the important parts. Congratulations. Awarded the Jason C. Albright Fellowship. Relocation to the Pasadena area by the first of March. A salary number and offer of tuition remission at Caltech. A phone number and website to acknowledge receipt of the letter and to formally accept the position. Lance took a shuddering sort of breath. That's it, then.

"Good for you, buddy," Lance wheezed, hoping that Hunk hadn't even heard him since his voice sounded so strangled. "Pidge too," came out in the tiniest of whispers.

"Don't tell her yet," Hunk recovered enough to say, proving that he had heard, eyes wide and plunging deep into Lance as the force of how much he meant it hit him. He reclaimed the letter from Lance's stiff hands, secreting it away into his back pocket. "I want to." His face broke into a wicked grin, the tendrils of a plan curling up Hunk's mouth.

"Sure," Lance agreed. It wasn't news he trusted himself to give properly anyway. He could barely keep his eyes off the floor, so he'd be certain to taint their triumph if he tried to tell her about it. Without looking, he could feel Hunk settle, pulling in his focus until it turned into a hand on Lance's shoulder.

"Why don't you come with us, bro?" Hunk invited. "USC has a great med program." But Lance was already shaking his head.

"Scholarship," was all he could say, reminding Hunk that the only reason he'd even been allowed into the country was due to some deceased rich man who had left behind a huge endowment with the direction that it be used to increase diversity at the University of Chicago, tailored specifically to favor students of African American and Latino ethnicity. Unequivocally tied to this one place. Lance had to stay.

Hunk's face had twisted into conflict, and Lance perked up in order not to ruin this for him. He absolutely was not going to make Hunk feel the way Lance's brothers sometimes made him feel. "But when you get where you're going make sure to invest in a longer couch because I am going to visit you all the time," Lance instructed, knowing his words had done what he wanted them to as Hunk's broad smile returned and he shook Lance's shoulder.

"You'll have your own room. We'll go to the beach," Hunk promised, flooding Lance's brain with bright skies and salty winds, the memory so strong that Lance tried to take a deep breath of it.

"I can't wait," he replied, honestly. "But for right now, maybe we should get back to your party."

"Oh, yeah," Hunk said, as if he'd forgotten there were eight people in his living room. Lance couldn't blame him. That tiny piece of paper had certainly changed the entire tone of the evening. Hunk hurried to the door, as if he'd suddenly decided that they'd been gone too long and needed to make up for it. "Sounds like Keith's here," Hunk said over his shoulder, leading the way down the hallway but his casual comment froze Lance to the spot, his internal organs liquifying as he pictured being in the same room with Keith and Allura simultaneously. Which was his original plan, but now that it was actually happening, he'd changed his mind about it. How was he supposed to do this? Especially now that he was already fighting not to ruin Hunk's party by being sad about their departure.

He spent the next few seconds folding up all his emotional laundry, separating it and smoothing it, putting it all away, crisping the corners on his expectations. Lance was going to walk down the hall. He'd greet Keith the way best friends do, a method he was going to figure out somewhere on the way. He would shake hands with Shiro. He would watch for how and when Hunk told Pidge that they were going to California after all, and he was going to be the one who began the applause about the news. He would not impede Romelle's and Keith's relationship in any way. He would stay near Allura and make sure she had a good time. He was going to behave exactly the way he was expected to. And no one would know that any of this might be difficult for him. Ok. Time to get started.

By the time Lance rejoined the others, Keith and Shiro had already added their coats to the pile. Shiro had taken up a rather sentry-ish position standing between the couch and the balcony door, arms folded, eyes contentedly fixed on Keith – who was almost excitedly helping Hunk tear into a large box on the table. Romelle and Allura had finished eating and disposed of their dishes. Romelle, naturally, was also staring at Keith, standing as close as she could without getting in his way. Pidge sat with her arms around her knees at the table near Hunk, waiting to see what was coming out of the box. The scientists filled out the empty spaces with their graphic T-shirts and tilted, inquisitive stances. Allura noticed Lance first and with an almost relieved look on her face she picked her way through the crowded apartment to be at his side.

Lance stepped away from the hallway to join her, taking her hand and pulling her gently over to stand near Shiro since the couch was covered with scientists and Lance didn't think he wanted to sit down right now anyway. Standing let him move the way he liked when he wasn't sure, and it allowed him a better view of all the party participants.

"Shiro, hi," Lance said, twisting into position, back to the wall, amazed that he actually sounded breathless. "Thanks for coming."

"Hello, Mr. Shirogane," Allura also greeted, slightly timid, exceptionally polite. Lance tried to picture their first meeting, how it had gone. In a courtroom undoubtedly, when Keith was sixteen and his life was falling apart. "I'm not sure if you remember me, but I'm Allura Lyons. I was a . . . witness. . " she started to falter, and Lance didn't even know what to say to help her. Fortunately, Shiro held up a hand, allowing her to stop.

"I remember you," he said, smiling to reassure her, letting her know that he harbored no hard feelings over that. "And I'm glad to see you again in a friendlier place. I wasn't aware you knew Lance, though." He shifted his gaze between them, deliberately noting their joined hands, the scar through his eyebrow wrinkling as his forehead creased.

"Allura donates plasma at the center where I work," Lance offered. "We've known each other for over a semester."

"Isn't that something?" Shiro murmured, filing away those details, coming to his own conclusions about the information he'd been given. He shook his head slightly before returning to his watch over Keith. After a moment of quiet observation, Shiro sighed softly, a pleasant sound. "You know, this is what I've always wanted for him," he confessed. "Ever since I met him, this was the life I wanted to build."

Keith and Hunk lifted a piece of equipment from the box, pulling free the wires and what looked like some sort of speaker, the kind that police use. Now that Lance was paying attention, he could hear what they were saying.

"It doesn't work," Keith told Hunk with a rather hopeful apology. "I figured you might want to . . ."

"You bet I do!" Hunk exclaimed, taking the black box from Keith and turning it over in his hands so he'd be able to look at it from all angles. "Thanks, man."

"What is that?" Allura asked innocently.

"It's an old CB radio," Shiro answered. "Otherwise known as the reason we're so late."

"Hunk is going to have a blast fixing that," Lance put the statement out there to make sure everyone knew that a broken radio was actually a perfect gift for Hunk. Really, a broken anything would have been good, he took such pride and pleasure from calculating strategies of making things functional again. An internal smile warmed Lance down his neck and into the small of his back, proud of Keith for being so thoughtful, for paying so much attention. For how well things were going.

"Thank you," Shiro said suddenly, tearing his gaze away from Keith to penetrate Lance with a gratitude that almost hurt. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate what you've done for Keith. He's never belonged anywhere, never been included like this."

"Well, he's stuck with us now," Lance said, trying not to sound too emotional. "We wouldn't be complete without him anymore." He watched Keith stand with Hunk and Pidge, pointing out the details of the radio, then watched him smile uncertainly at Romelle when she put her hand on his back, coming close to ask him a question. That smile damaged the mood, poked sharply into Lance's side, something a little more than jealousy stinging him when he saw it. He told himself that he was too invested, that he was looking for things that weren't actually there. He knew it shouldn't matter if Romelle touched Keith, and so what if he smiled back at her when she did it? Didn't Lance want the same things for Keith that he wanted for himself? A future, the affection of a good-natured, loyal girl. Lance had promised himself that he would do nothing to interfere, but something in how Keith looked at Romelle forced Lance forward to do just that.

"Hey Lobito," Lance called to him, probably interrupting Romelle, but he wasn't thinking too much about it. He just wanted to separate them, or at least include himself with them. Even though he knew he really shouldn't, that this was counterproductive to his plan.

Keith's head snapped up, eyes scanning the guests until he found Lance in the crowd, causing his whole face to soften in recognition and causing Lance's heart to beat hard in his throat. He had to clear it before he could talk again.

"Come get some dinner." He gestured for Keith to meet him in the kitchen, looking back for only a moment in order to include Shiro. "I'll bring you a plate," he promised. Shiro nodded in acknowledgement, an interesting expression on his face, questioning, almost puzzlement, like he didn't quite understand the true significance of what had just happened, but he was going to work it out. Lance decided he'd worry about what Shiro thought later. Right now, he wanted to be with Keith. Lance kept hold of Allura's hand, pulling her with him across the living room. Keith was on his way too, coming to a space where Lance could have more control of the situation. Which shouldn't have been something he wanted, but it soothed him nonetheless.

"Do you call anyone by their actual name?" Allura questioned, voice near his ear as she drew close enough behind him to put a hand on his back.

"You," Lance responded, leading her around the coffee table, feeling Pidge watching him intently. Maybe it would be a good idea to sit down with her tonight, after everyone went home, and compare notes and nuances of the evening. Or maybe it would be extremely dangerous, but he had a few hours to debate the risk. "But the nicknames happen sooner or later with all my friends, so it's only a matter of time. Unless you don't want me to."

Allura smiled silkily, and he could see in her face that she was both eager and apprehensive about what sort of name he would come up with for her. "That will depend entirely on what you pick."

Lance allowed himself a small laugh. He didn't even think he could take credit for the nicknames; they just came to him. He'd been so formal with Allura for so long, he'd never even considered it. But if she _wanted_ him to call her something, maybe this time he'd have to dedicate some effort to it. What sort of things did boyfriends call their sweethearts anyway?

They all came together in the small kitchen, Lance and Allura from one direction and Keith and Romelle from the other. Lance let Allura go in order to start serving. Though he hesitated briefly before handing a plate to Keith, too many thoughts running through his head at once. What if he didn't like it? What if he couldn't eat it?

"It won't be too spicy for you, right?" Lance double checked, trying hard to ignore how possessively Romelle stood next to him. Reminding himself that dropping the plate so he could grab Keith around the neck and kiss him full on the mouth would cause more hurt than it was worth. It was extremely hot in this kitchen.

"Just give me the plate, Lance," Keith commanded, stepping so close that Lance almost gasped, and Lance decided that he would say nothing else tonight that would give Keith any suggestion that Lance might be fussing over him or his health. He knew that Keith had grown tired of that, and the impatience about it was strong in his voice. "I've been waiting all day to try this."

"It's really good; Lance did a fantastic job of it," Allura offered her opinion, drawing Keith's attention to her. Lance saw his eyes flash freeze, until they really did look gray for a moment, a hint of tightness around his mouth and jawline. He hid it by studying the food as he took it from Lance, taking care not to drop the fork in the transfer. When he looked up again, he'd smoothed all trace of whatever that had been from his features. Lance wished there was some way he could ask him about it. Instead, he dished up one more serving for Shiro while Keith managed one bite of his own. But after the first taste, he set the fork down, holding the plate awkwardly, still.

Lance almost asked him about this too, worried that he really didn't like it, before he remembered that Keith felt uncomfortable being watched while he ate. Especially if he was the only one eating. Lance passed over Shiro's food to Allura, asking her if she'd mind bringing it over to him. Then he filled a third plate, which was actually a good thing. He'd been so caught up in everything else that he'd forgotten he hadn't eaten yet either. He raised his fork to Keith, a weird sort of toast, but Keith relaxed immediately, returning to his meal with such dedicated purpose that Lance no longer worried about him liking it or not.

The chairs in the room were already full, so Lance and Keith leaned against the counter, hips almost touching in the small space, and ate together while Romelle and soon Allura again, stood beside them. Lance almost choked on his first bite – he'd done such a good job replicating his mother's recipe that it tasted like his childhood, and the nostalgia was almost too thick to swallow. He felt Keith lean in to him slightly, an almost imperceptible touch that could have happened on accident, but the warmth of it eased Lance enough that he could take another bite. Focus on what's going on right now, his father's voice in his head reminded him. Don't miss out because you're worrying about something coming. And Lance had to admit that the right now of this particular second was everything he wanted it to be. Keith on one side of him, Allura on the other, a childhood favorite on his plate, and the apartment warm and happy. There were a couple of things that could improve it, but they existed outside of this moment.

Around them the music continued, as did the talk, small groups chatting, switching, talking some more. One of the scientists, Lance thought his name might be Ben, stood in the center of a small cluster which included Pidge. The animated way he moved his hands indicated he was in the middle of his most passionate conspiracy theory, but it must have been truly impressive since Pidge was staring at him in rapt concentration with an almost impressed expression on her face. Closer to him, Lance heard Romelle ask Keith what he was planning to do now.

"Study," he replied, sounding humiliated, hesitant to give out this information. "I'm scheduled to take the GED in two weeks."

"That's great," Lance broke in just as Romelle said something extremely similar. He didn't spare her a glance; he'd barely heard her over the pride that coated the inside of his chest at Keith's decision to finish his high school education after all. He really was moving on, in such a good direction. "I can help you if you want," Lance offered, a split second before Romelle this time. In his peripheral vision, he saw Allura's wry smile at how they were speaking practically in synch. Glad someone could find it funny. He dared shoot a quick look at Romelle this time and discovered her glaring at him. But whatever. He was Keith's best friend. Keith said so.

Keith blushed between them, looking as though he wished he'd lied in response to Romelle's question. "Actually," he said apologetically to both of them, "Hunk's going to help me."

Lance must have looked stricken because Keith continued, explaining his decision defensively. "You have so much going on." And that hurt because it was true. Lance wasn't even sure where he was going to fit Allura into his already cramped and demanding schedule. But he would have figured it out, would have turned the world upside down if Keith had just said something. At least he was getting help from Hunk. That meant he'd be at the apartment often in the next two weeks. That was good. Or maybe it wasn't.

"Hunk's a great choice," Lance complimented, smoothing it all out. "He's super smart and less likely to emotionally damage you." Now Keith looked confused enough that Lance had to expand his answer. "I had Pidge help me study once," he explained, remembering how merciless she had been about it, how it had cut into his self-esteem. "Hunk's a great choice," Lance repeated and was rewarded with another of Keith's smiles.

The party progressed mostly as planned. Lance finished eating and took out his phone, keeping himself from worrying about Keith, Romelle, Allura, and upcoming separations by focusing on pictures. He took one of Hunk blowing out his candles. Another of Pidge with one of the biggest pieces of cake. Shiro and Keith standing together, Shiro's arm around Keith's shoulders as they laughed over something Keith had said, looking very much like brothers. He couldn't bring himself to take a picture of Keith and Romelle together, though he had ample opportunity. Romelle kept close to Keith as often as possible, almost constantly touching his arm or back. Keith never touched Romelle first, but he quite often took her elbow so he could scoot her a pace away. He was always gentle with her, treating her as if she were made of glass, but Lance began to wonder if he truly enjoyed having her so close to him. Allura didn't seem to notice anything amiss going on, so Lance tried not to think about it. It could very well be that he was seeing it only because he desperately wanted to.

"Here," Keith said abruptly behind Lance's shoulder as Lance finished taking a picture of Pidge giving an animated discourse on how disappointing it was that the FCC no longer required knowledge of Morse code for an amateur radio license. "Hand me your phone."

"Huh?" Lance grunted in response, surprised that Keith had snuck up on him again. He didn't even know where he'd come from. He also appeared to have slipped away from Romelle; she was nowhere in sight. How did he do that?

"If these pictures are for your family, then I think they'd appreciate you being _in_ some of them," Keith suggested, reaching a hand out for Lance's phone.

"I took a selfie with Allura earlier," Lance pointed out, though he hadn't actually checked to see if it worked well. Keith rolled his eyes, but Lance didn't know which part of what he'd said caused the reaction.

"Selfies don't count. Let me take one of you by the food you made."

"Okay," Lance agreed slowly as the sense of Keith's statement sank in. He felt weird posing while Keith took his picture, but Keith had a point. His family hadn't seen him in over a year. He didn't even know how he'd appear changed in their eyes. How could he have gone so long without thinking of sending them photos?

Keith kept the phone afterward, which made Lance both self-conscious about what other pictures Keith might take and worried about whether or not he'd look at anything else on Lance's phone. There were still certain texts from Pidge from earlier in the day that Lance would rather no one see, especially Keith. But he didn't have to worry for too long because Shiro claimed control of the camera, nominating himself photographer. Lance knew he could trust Shiro to not do anything with the phone other than take pictures.

It left Lance with his hands free and no job to do. Now that the cake had been cut, they were all just waiting until the right time to test the radio. Pidge had told them that the space station makes several orbits around the Earth every day, and it wouldn't be long before it would be directly over Chicago again. It would have to be as close as possible for them to contact it.

Lance spoke more with Allura, who stayed almost as close to Lance as Romelle did to Keith, filling her in on details of the day, telling her things about Pidge and Hunk, speculating on whether or not the signal from their homemade radio could breach earth's atmosphere. There seemed to be a mixed consensus on it. Sometimes Romelle and Keith joined them; Keith's eyes fixing on Lance's with untranslatable emotions that Lance despaired about because he couldn't read them the way he could with Pidge. Whenever they came, Lance did his best to keep Keith close, to keep their foursome tight, but something always split them up again. One of Hunk's friends coming to ask Lance about the recipe he'd used for the punch (there wasn't one) or Pidge popping by to ask Lance if he had some tape. There was even one time where Lance had to actually dissuade one of the scientists from flirting with Allura. And each of these small distractions was enough for Romelle to drift away with Keith again, creatively disappearing in the tiny space of the apartment and reappearing as far from Lance as she could get. Lance wasn't sure if she were trying to just have Keith to herself or if she specifically wanted to keep him away from Lance, and he wished he could talk to Allura about it, but he didn't want to say anything bad about her best friend – even if she was getting on his nerves. Lance was starting to wish the party could be over.

And it seemed he wasn't the only one. Lance began to notice that Keith had stopped smiling at some point, even for Shiro. That he kept holding his left bicep, his right arm tight against his ribcage. He stood rather hunched, a position of pain. At first, Lance thought he was imagining it; he knew he was watching Keith too much, too intently. But then he saw Shiro pull Keith aside, hand on his shoulder, concern on his face, and Lance knew that what he was seeing was real enough for others to notice too.

"Would you excuse me for a minute?" Lance requested of Allura, knowing it was probably in bad form to leave her to see about Keith, but he was acting strangely enough that Lance wanted to investigate. If his left arm hurt, it could be heart related, and that was definitely something to worry about. "I need to talk to Keith about something."

"Certainly," Allura acquiesced, the memory of the promise she'd made to wait for him mixed into the word, though Lance could tell she wanted to ask him more questions, that she wasn't sure why Lance had to leave her in order to talk to Keith. But she was going to allow it; she wasn't going to demand he stay or take her with him. It made Lance smile, tracing a finger down her cheek, wondering if he even deserved her, wondering how many times he would have to touch her, to see her looking at him, before it began to sink in that they were really together.

"I'll be back soon," he assured before ducking through the guests to the other side of the room, almost physically pushing himself past Romelle with the same request to her as he'd made to Allura. Though phrased less politely. Can you leave us alone for a minute?

"Come with me," Lance practically ordered, tugging on Keith's sleeve, who submitted so quickly that Lance thought he'd been waiting for someone to give him permission to leave. Lance's worry deepened as he led Keith to his bedroom, not saying anything to Shiro as he followed them. Lance wanted quiet and privacy for whatever conversation was going to happen, and he didn't want anyone near Keith except himself, though he knew he'd have to make an exception for Shiro. Lance pulled Keith into the room, waiting just long enough for Shiro to slip inside as well before shutting the party out for the second time that night, allowing his focus to sharpen in the soft, familiar stillness.

Keith automatically sat down on Lance's bed, some of the rigidness leaving him already now that he was out of the crowded room, back in an environment that he was more comfortable in. He hung his head, closing his eyes, breathing deeply as though Lance had just pulled him from a boxing ring. What was going on?

"Can you tell me what's wrong now?" Shiro began almost immediately, worry making him blunt. "And don't say nothing because Lance could see it all the way across the room."

"Are you feeling ok? Does something hurt?" Lance asked right on top of Shiro, dialing down the questions to be more specific as Keith continued to stare at the floor in silence. "Is it your arm? You've been holding it for a while now. You took your heart medication on time, right?"

"You watched me take it," Keith shot back heatedly, frustrated, and Lance internally chastened himself. He'd made a promise to himself not to fuss over Keith tonight, but that was before Keith started acting like he was in the beginning stages of a heart attack. He was still rubbing his arm even after Lance had mentioned it. "And it _is_ nothing."

Shiro sat down next to Keith on the bed, which seemed to force Keith off of it – pushing away, testing boundaries again. Something must be stressing him out if he'd started behaving like this. Lance stationed himself in front of the door, blocking the only exit. What happened? Where was the boy laughing with Shiro over cake earlier? The boy who looked so happy to give Hunk a broken CB radio? The one who had zipped around the apartment taking pictures. When and why had the guarded wolf part of his personality returned with such force?

"Lobito," Lance entreated, knowing better than to go any closer with Keith all wound up and distant. "It's just us." And you can trust us because we specialize in seeing your pain. It's our life's goal to remove it for you. Talk to us. But Keith was shaking his head, still trying to deny anything was wrong.

"Do you want me to take you home?" Shiro offered, and Lance saw a tremor shudder all down Keith's body at the word. He wished Keith would allow him near, would still let Lance touch him. He wanted to put his arms around him, hold him until whatever was troubling him went away. He wanted him to feel safe.

"No," Keith said curtly, but then wavered. "Maybe." Maybe? Was it the party? Maybe it was too loud, overstimulating. While Lance enjoyed it when the apartment was full, he knew that Keith preferred things to be quieter, that he wasn't used to so many strangers or so much attention. Maybe it was wearing him out to be around so much noise. Maybe he was getting tired of Romelle keeping right on top of him – oh! Could that be it?

"Is it Romelle?" Lance questioned, hoping he wouldn't regret saying it out loud. He braced himself for both Shiro and Keith to look at him strangely, so ready to be wrong about what he thought he'd seen between them that he was stunned by the actual reaction. Keith flinched, his body language flashing bright red guilt as he returned to the previous posture that had caused Lance to bring him back here in the first place. Right hand clenched tight over his bicep, the arm pressed hard against his ribs, shoulders hunched and head drooped. A stance that Lance had never seen until tonight.

"Romelle?" Shiro echoed, confused about it even though it was so obvious that Lance was on to something. "What has she got to do with . . .?" But he couldn't help but notice Keith's extreme reaction to her name. "Keith?"

"I'm sorry," Keith murmured automatically, which made all the acid in Lance's stomach curdle, suddenly too hot. It always made him so sad when Keith apologized that way. "I know I'm ruining everything."

"Now wait a minute," Shiro began, reaching entreatingly for Keith, who shrank against the desk.

"Nothing's ruined," Lance contradicted, verbally attempting to hold on to Keith, to the shredding pieces of his trust, trying to figure out why he would say something like that. Also wondering what it would take to help Keith stand straight again, if he was experiencing real physical pain or if this was something mental, a memory of a wound.

Keith raised his eyes just enough to stare into Lance's, and this time some things were strong enough for Lance to decipher. There was remorse glistening there, the guilt Lance had seen before, and . . . some kind of wish. Keith's ribcage collapsed as he exhaled harshly, and Lance decided to risk it, like he had before in this room and at the hospital. He stepped forward, reaching out deliberate and slow to put his hand against Keith's chest, over his heart. It exploded in a rush at the contact, punching into Lance's palm, and Keith gasped again, but then it slowed, steadying, as Keith mimicked Lance, at last removing his hand from his arm and creating that Josephson junction Lance had taught him in the emergency room. Calibrate. Synchronization. Slow down and let's figure this out. I'm with you.

Emboldened by his success, Lance took one more step closer, feeling Keith shudder, feeling Shiro's eyes on them. Keith leaned his forehead against Lance's shoulder, and Lance forced himself not to move. He didn't want to disturb this. Whatever this was.

"I can't do it," Keith confessed to Lance's shirt. "I thought I could, but . . ."

"Ok," Lance accepted, soothing, though he was becoming increasingly confused. "What do you think you can't do?"

"I know it makes sense," Keith began, and Lance held his breath so as not to disturb him, not give him any reason to stop what he'd started. "It'd be perfect, wouldn't it? You and Allura, Romelle and me. I know that's what she wants, too, but . . .God, every time I look at her." Keith pressed his face closer into Lance's shoulder, and Lance noticed that they had stepped even closer to each other. His hand still pressed protectively over Keith's heart, but he'd been forced to bend his arm, pinning it between their torsos. He felt Keith's fingers clench into his shirt.

"Oh, Keith," Shiro breathed outside their circle. Not a sound of sympathy or pity. There was an understanding in it, like Shiro knew exactly what Keith meant. "That's nothing to be sorry for."

"Will it stop?" Keith asked Shiro, who looked rather haunted now himself. "Or am I going to feel him stabbing me every time she touches my arm?"

Oh. Lance closed his eyes, turning his head away. Why did it have to be Romelle who was Allura's best friend? Why did it have to be that they'd met that way, in that dark parking lot, before Lance had come into any of their lives? Keith's posture made sense now. He'd been covering the scar from David's knife. That's what Pidge had said. He had a knife. He sliced open Keith's arm – cracked one of his ribs too. Psychosomatic pain. . . from the memory of the night Keith met Romelle. When he'd shattered pieces of himself onto the ground that he might never put back together. Those shards of trauma cutting into him now, triggered by Romelle's face, her touch, her scent. Getting worse the longer he forced himself to stay next to her. He was her hero, but she was his nightmare. But he'd felt the expectation to try and pretend that there was nothing bothering him. Because the couples would look so tidy in the photo. Two sets of best friends paired together. Isn't that the most romantic story?

"I don't know the answer to that," Shiro responded, voice full of something more than what they were talking about. Drenched in his own demons that Lance hadn't even thought of. Shiro seemed so solid all the time that it never occurred to him the sort of trauma he might be dealing with. He looked over to Shiro just in time to see him slowly clench his robotic hand. Lance had no idea his room could be this full of pain and he would have no way to heal it. There was nothing in his med bag for this. "But it's not fair to you to force yourself to have feelings for someone. Not fair to her either."

Keith retreated, at least physically, from Lance, his breathing ragged now as he struggled with what to do. He still stood open and vulnerable in front of them, shaking his head.

"I wish I could," he said, again apologetically. "I tried talking myself into it. She's a sweet girl. She stayed with me the entire time I was locked up. She deserves to have someone take care of her, and there's really no reason not to like her, but I just . . . I can't do it. I can't get past it. I'm sorry, Lance."

"No, it's fine," Lance protested, not knowing why Keith felt he needed to apologize to him for this. "Keith, really. Shiro's right; you can't force yourself to feel attracted to someone." But what was going to happen now? Even though Lance was speaking words of assurance to Keith, he felt like he was losing something important here. "But you should probably let Romelle know before this goes on much longer. She does deserve that."

"What about me?" The feminine voice, the innocent question, slipped into the room a little ahead of Romelle herself, drawn towards them by hearing her name. Allura was with her. No way to know how long they'd been listening, but judging from the question, probably not incriminatingly long. Though what they were going to say now was a mystery. Lance felt his mouth drop open, felt himself begin stammering some kind of explanation that would protect Keith from having to answer until he was ready. Nothing was coming to him.

"We came to tell you that they're starting the radio test in a couple minutes," Allura explained their presence, entering with a hesitancy, gauging the expressions on all their faces. Lance felt weighed down with guilt and sorrow and something else that didn't even have a name. It was astonishing to him that just down the hallway there was still a party going on. "Is everything ok? You all look so serious."

Lance tried to smile, but his heart wasn't in it. Allura obviously felt it keenly, as she stepped close to him, holding on to his arm the way Pidge had done earlier. He covered her hand with his free one, looking desperately to Keith, who was obviously doing his best not to shy away from Romelle. Lance could see the struggle clearly now that he knew it wasn't in his imagination. Keith could barely look at her.

"You wanted to tell me something?" Romelle said to Keith, trying to engage him, trying to catch his eye, and Lance took a deep breath as though his bedroom were going to plummet to the ground floor.

"Yeah," Keith acknowledged, eyes fixed on Shiro for strength as he spoke. Lance waited, urging Keith to just get it over with. It would be bad, of course. Romelle might storm off in a fit of tears. She might take Allura with her. They might not ever want to talk to Keith or Lance again. It might indeed ruin everything, and Lance steeled himself for that possibility. He didn't want Keith to suffer anymore, and especially for something like this. He shouldn't have to pretend because it was convenient for everyone else. Because he thought it was what he should do or feel.

"I'm leaving," Keith said abruptly, and Romelle stiffened in surprise. Lance tilted his head. What did that mean? That . . wasn't what he thought Keith was going to say. Even Shiro lifted an eyebrow, staring at Keith.

"Leaving?" Romelle repeated as a request for more information. "Like right now?"

"No, I'm," Keith faltered for a second, taking a deep breath. "I'm joining the Air Force. Once I get my GED, I'm . . . I'm going to Texas for boot camp. The next class starts at the beginning of March."

Lance bit his tongue to prevent himself from shouting out. What?! Keith was going to what? No. That was so much farther than McKinley Park. He might never see him again if he did that. The Air Force? Where had that even come from? Obviously, this was something that Keith had been planning for at least a little while since he'd already scheduled his GED test. But he hadn't even hinted to Lance that he'd been thinking about it.

"Keith," Shiro said warningly. "I thought that we were going to –"

"No, it's the right choice," Keith protested. He shifted his huge eyes to meet Lance's startled ones. There was resolution in his face now that he'd apparently finalized his decision. "It's what I've always wanted," he said softly, as if in explanation to Lance for what he was doing. And even though it killed Lance to do it, he nodded to Keith in what he hoped was an encouraging way. Like with Hunk and Pidge, if this was something Keith wanted, Lance was going to support him.

"The Air Force?" Romelle clarified, her voice seeming to echo somewhere from the very pit of her soul, where Keith had likely dropped her heart. Keith took her hands in his, mostly in order to remove them from his body, pressing them firmly towards her before releasing her completely. "How long will you be away?"

"Years?" Keith guessed, looking again to Shiro, who nodded that Keith was correct. "Training only takes a few weeks, but then I'll be stationed somewhere."

Stationed. Oh, God, where would they send him? Somewhere far? Dangerous? What was even going on in the world right now? Lance didn't even know; he'd been so microfocused for so long. Lance felt Allura's hands on him tighten, as though she were preparing to catch him if he fell over. He grounded himself by focusing on where she touched him. Near his ear, she sighed in pity and disappointment. In shock. Because they all knew what this meant. Keith had removed himself from any kind of availability. Lance felt as though the very foundation of his life were crumbling out from underneath him.

"Lance, get out here!" Pidge called from the doorway, sharp, immediate, stabbing into the tenseness of the situation and exploding it open. She paused, taking stock of what she'd walked into for maybe two seconds before shaking it off and sternly addressing Lance again. "We have a window; we can't wait for you."

"Yeah," Lance acknowledged, breathless, like Keith had just punched him in the stomach. "We're coming."

Pidge took pity on him. While she could have no idea what had just happened here, she could read him well enough to know how to help him best. Darting forward, she firmly took hold of Romelle's and Allura's wrists, pulling them with unquestionable authority out of the room. Romelle looked too stunned to protest, but Allura glanced back at Lance before Pidge dragged her away.

"Right behind you," Lance assured, though he wasn't certain he could move. Not sure if his equilibrium could take it if he tried to walk out of here. Shiro was already on Keith before Pidge had truly left.

"Are you sure this is how you want to do this?" Shiro pressed him, the voice of experience. The voice that knew exactly what Keith was signing up for. "Because once you've committed, this isn't something you run away from. And it's not the solution for avoiding a difficult conversation."

"That's not what I'm doing," Keith emphasized, his posture much stronger now. He glanced over to Lance, and he caught the tiniest hint of regret on his face. "It's better for everyone this way."

Lance opened his mouth, a "how can you say that?" brimming at the back of his throat that he never got to say because Pidge yelled at him again from the hallway.

"Lance, come on!"

They all looked toward the door, even though it was only Lance who was being summoned.

"All right; now isn't the time to get into it," Shiro said. "Did you want to leave or stay?"

"Stay," Keith decided forcefully, with so much conviction that Lance wanted to ask him why he thought he had to join the Air Force if he wanted to stay so much. Did he really want this? Was it only because he wanted to get away from Romelle? But no, Lance remembered that Pidge had said he'd tried to join before but had been turned away because of the assault on his record. Now that it had been wiped clean, he had a second chance.

But he'd be leaving too. In March. Who knew where he'd end up? For years.

"Lance," Keith called him, and he realized that they were leaving him standing frozen in the middle of his bedroom floor. He said it softly, easing Lance up and out of his shock, persuading him to leave it be for now. "Let's go see if my dial works."

"Ok," Lance said, forcing his stiff limbs into motion. Shiro patted him sympathetically on the back as he passed him, as they silently tabled the conversation about this huge, sudden decision to a better time. But even if they talked about it later, Lance knew Keith wouldn't change his mind about it. He'd officially lost him in every way possible. Damn it, Keith.

Almost everyone clustered around the table, around the radio, as Lance came back to the party. Hunk had David Bowie's "Ground Control to Major Tom" playing on his phone while Pidge compulsively checked the time. The physicists stared intently at the radio, willing it to connect to the cosmos. Having them all flocked to the electronics had left the couch free, so Lance sank into it. So much had happened and was still going on that he felt sort of numb, except for the warm place to his side that bloomed up as Keith sat next to him. Shiro perched on the arm of the couch, his robotic arm gripped to Keith's shoulder. Romelle looked over to them, but it seemed as though Pidge had set a guard over her. The astrophysicist, Ben, held her in conversation, one of his arms hovering loosely around her back, as though he'd like to hold her around the waist but he didn't dare touch her yet. She looked rather torn, but after a moment of staring at Keith where he didn't look back, she submitted to Ben, allowing him to continue whatever lengthy explanation he'd started. Lance knew he owed Pidge for this, well, for a lot more than just this. She'd even picked the scientist she respected the most to distract Romelle from Keith. It was rather a compliment.

Allura had no bodyguard restraints, however, and she quickly came to Lance's side. The couch was too short, but Keith and Lance shifted enough so that she could squeeze in, putting Lance in the middle. Lance lifted his arm, easing it gently it around Allura's shoulders to make more room, and she nestled into his side.

"You ok?" She whispered into his ear. "I take it that news was a surprise to you too."

"Yeah," he whispered back, answering both questions at once, and she nodded, picking up on his tone. They were going to pretend that everything was ok for tonight. He'd untangle the knot in his chest later. "Is Romelle ok?"

"She's too stunned right now to feel anything," Allura confessed.

"I bet," Lance said, though he knew exactly what Allura meant. He felt that way too. Keith shifted next to him, and he felt every point of contact along their shoulders, hips, and thighs, heat radiating from each place. Allura stretched her arm out from where it was caught against Lance's chest, resting it along the top of his leg and curling her elegant fingers around his knee. They switched their attention back to Pidge, who repeated her call sign into the receiver, paging the space station.

"This is KK6EJK," she told the universe. "Contacting Captain Chris Cassidy on ISS. Do you copy?"

Nothing but static on the line, nothing but held breath around the table. Pidge handed the receiver to Hunk, who signaled out his own call. The song played on repeat in the background. Hunk fiddled with Keith's dial, trying to fine-tune the frequency. The guests began to fidget, doubt that this was going to work spreading like a disease among them.

"This is KK6EJK," Pidge pleaded into the receiver, more than one kind of disappointment tainting her words. "Does anyone copy?"

"We hear you," came the invisible voice at last, distorted but decipherable. Keith sat forward next to Lance. "Hailing from ISS."

A cheer erupted around the table, and Hunk crashed into a chair. Pidge flapped her hand at everyone, demanding quiet so they could hear. Lance heard himself huff in surprise and appreciation. So they'd succeeded after all, initiating a conversation with an astronaut two hundred and twenty miles above the earth's surface. That tiny, cobbled-together box on the table enough to bridge that gap. Incredible.

Pidge and Hunk quickly told their story. Who they were and how they'd built the radio and gotten their licenses specifically so they'd be able to talk to ISS as they drifted over Chicago. They asked the astronauts a few questions, and they were gracious in their answers.

"Congratulations on your radio," Captain Cassidy expressed kindly. "That's so impressive that you built it yourselves. Maybe you should join our team at NASA."

Pidge's face fell, and Lance realized that Hunk hadn't told her about the letter yet. It looked as though he'd been waiting for this exact moment because he dashed forward, snatching the receiver out of her hand.

"We had the same idea," Hunk told him and everyone else in the room. "You're actually talking to the newest recipients of the Jason C. Albright Fellowship award. We will be joining you very soon." The room gasped collectively, and Pidge almost dropped to the floor.

"What?" She half-shrieked. Hunk produced the acceptance letter from his back pocket, handing it over to her. Captain Cassidy's chuckle filled the room from space.

"Well, how about that?" He said, good-naturedly. "In that case, I'm looking forward to hearing from you again. I'm sure you'll have a lot of good things to contribute to the program. Take care now . . . and happy birthday!"

The static intensified as the space station continued on its path, out of range. Allura breathed out an exclamation of amazement softly, words that Lance could feel on his neck more than he could hear. The physicists were beside themselves, more animated than Lance had thought possible, hooting and laughing and shaking Hunk's hand, slapping a disoriented Pidge on the shoulder. Hunk closed the communication, signing off his call sign and neatly switching off the radio before Pidge flat out attacked him.

"Holy Stephen Hawking; Hunk, you monster!" Pidge shrieked, the letter clenched tight in her hands.

"It came today!" Hunk called out his defense as quickly as possible. "Don't kill me; I just found out too!"

Pidge screamed out another frustrated, emotional noise, covering her face so no one would see how much this was affecting her. Hunk waved off some of the attempts to comfort her, doing it himself by shielding her in his arms. Ben was trying hard to hug Romelle, caught up in the moment.

"We did it," Pidge sobbed. "We're really going." 

Lance tuned so far inward that he couldn't hear the celebration anymore, Pidge's last words rattling around in his head. Allura whispered in his ear, more talk that had no meaning for him. She pressed her hand on his knee, and he registered with surprise Keith doing the same thing on the other side. He bowed his head, grabbing them both, almost clenching his hands over theirs, sandwiched between them. It felt like he was falling through the floor, the walls of the apartment tearing from the frames, rearranging in a new and frightening way. How was he supposed to move forward after this?

"Lance, it's ok," Keith reassured, and he tried to nod. Allura twisted in the seat, pulling her hand out from under his so she could wrap both her arms around his neck. He slid his own around her waist as she pressed her forehead to his temple. Lance closed his eyes, trying to feel the pressure, trying to feel anything besides overwhelming loss and Keith's heat. Tried to hold this moment hard in his mind, knowing that once he got up, once everyone went home and the apartment was stripped of all trace of this event, that he could never get it back the same way again.

**Author's Note: What are you thinking? What's going on? Stay with me, ok, even though there are longer breaks between updates. I am so excited to write the next couple chapters, coming to the end of this epic. I think you'll be satisfied with where it's going, but it is going to get dark before it gets light again. Because I like it better that way.**

**Also, here's something crazy. I started this story just over a year ago. I'm shocked it's been in my head this long and that I've been completely dedicated to it. I haven't been tempted to just pause it for a few months to write something else. That may not be surprising to anyone but me, but happy anniversary "little" story. I still love you.**


	31. Separation Anxiety

**Author's Note: I know! I'm still here. I'm doing 8 – 10 hours a day of distance learning with my daughters, but I am still here. This chapter is going to feel like a plug being pulled out of a lake, draining pretty fast down a whirlpool. Important things are happening – physically, emotionally – it's all transitioning us for what's coming up next. But enough from me, I'll let you read it.**

**Chapter Thirty-One: Separation Anxiety**

"So let me get this straight," Pidge began as though they were in the middle of a conversation, even though Lance hadn't seen or spoken to her all day and she made the comment as she strode purposefully and non-apologetically into Lance's bedroom. A shadow at the doorway let Lance know that Hunk was right behind her, though he at least carried an offering with him – a plate with a steaming mug and what looked like a grilled cheese sandwich. Lance wanted to turn away from both of them. He didn't feel like chatting, and he knew for a fact that grilled cheese was near the top of the American comfort food list. This was some kind of good cop, bad cop intervention thing, and he wasn't up for it. Not yet. But apparently Pidge had been revving up for a confrontation, not hesitating at all to call Lance out on his attitude today. "Are you sulking or pining?"

Pidge sprawled across Lance's bed, ensuring that she had his attention, though she ignored his glare. Hunk deposited the plate on top of Lance's open notebook on his desk, right in front of him, and then took up position to the side, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, watching like a referee.

"I'm busy," Lance returned, monotone, pulling his notebook out from underneath the plate. He wasn't lying; there had been a long list of things he had to catch up on today. Homework assignments, repacking his disheveled med bag, talking to his family early that morning – an extra-long conversation since they had to discuss what had happened last week and go over all the pictures Lance had emailed them in detail. Snow was a big deal. Then Lance had prepped for another full week ahead of him, though this one would be free of ambulance runs, birthday parties, and hopefully spending the night in the ER.

"Nope," Pidge countered rapidly, eyes sharp and scrutinizing, willing him to confess to something that he wasn't clear on. "Busy is when you're eating standing up in the kitchen. Busy is when you wear your scrubs to class because you won't have time to come back and change. Busy means you get up an hour earlier to finish a case study. What you're doing here is hiding."

Lance turned to Hunk, who simply put both hands up, palms out and head shaking.

"Don't look at me, buddy," Hunk deflected, unwilling to come to Lance's defense. "I'm with her." Ok, so no good cop.

"Fine," Lance huffed. "Hiding, sulking, pining. Call it whatever you want, but at least my homework is almost finished."

"No!" Pidge yelled, obviously unwilling to play mind games, and Lance tried to summon the energy to deal with her. What did she care what he did with his Sunday? What did it matter if he spent it in the living room or his bedroom? She wasn't even going to be around for much longer, so she didn't really get to have much of an opinion. "Lance, come on!"

"What?" He managed, feeling rather picked on. What did she want from him? Didn't she understand that he was in here because he didn't want to damage their triumph? He didn't want to rain on any parades, and he didn't trust himself to keep his disappointment under control. So he was keeping to himself until he could. If he was hiding, it was for her sake.

"Don't you 'what' me like you don't get what's going on. You're just going to give up without even trying?" Pidge sat up as she spoke, perching on the edge of the mattress, her face broken open in an unsettling mix of compassion and fury.

"What are we even talking about?" Lance asked a little too quickly. His soul cooled as he realized that he probably knew exactly what they were talking about, and the conversation was about to go spinning into an even worse direction than how much time he'd spent alone today.

"Keith," Hunk volunteered quietly from the sidelines. Lance felt himself crumpling and tried to hide it by rolling his eyes. Yeah, of course. Keith. Who left last night with Shiro. Who patiently, albeit stiffly, allowed Romelle to embrace him, though Lance hadn't dared touch him on his way out. He left a little earlier than Allura, who Lance had touched, had clutched close in yet another attempt to make her seem real. She had obliged willingly, had nuzzled into Lance's chest and kissed him with soft, cool lips in farewell – which started an ache inside him that was close to homesickness, but without an actual location attached. Just a sense of loss and a desperate hunger for something he could never have. A hurt that drove Lance to bed earlier than he'd intended, before all of the other party guests had even gone and had, if he were being honest with himself, indeed imprisoned him in his room all day, suppressing any desire he might have had for food or company, knowing that there was nothing in the apartment that would truly satisfy him. Keith was a main focal point, but he wasn't the only contributing factor.

"There really isn't anything to say," Lance said, still monotone, shrugging, willing them to just let it go.

"I disagree," Pidge almost hissed, staring pointedly at him, watching him for every tell-tale nuance in his expression that he wouldn't be able to hide from her no matter how he tried. "I think you've got plenty to say, and you'd better do it fast or you are going to lose him forever."

"Wasn't that what you wanted?" Lance threw at her, vicious, defensive, unwilling to cooperate with her. She didn't understand. Not really. It just wouldn't work. "For him to disappear forever?"

"Don't you dare twist this," Pidge challenged, frustrated. "My goal then is the same as my goal now – I'm trying to keep you from making a mistake."

"What am I supposed to do?" Lance asked desperately, his volume raising as the intensity of how much he wanted that question answered exploded into the room. He saw Pidge's shoulders raise as she drew in a long breath, her mouth dropping open to explain to him in minute detail exactly what she thought he was supposed to do and what she thought of his intelligence for having to be told to do it. Lance's lungs splintered in his next inhale, his whole nervous system stinging in preparation.

"Talk to him, Lance," Hunk rumbled gently from the sidelines before Pidge could say anything sharp. "Allura too."

"See, now that would be a mistake," Lance emphasized, wishing they could see that as plainly as he could. Pidge growled something under her breath, reaching forward and snatching his notebook away from him, flipping it open to a clean page.

"Let me spell this out for you," Pidge suggested through gritted teeth, on the verge of being completely condescending. But when she actually started drawing a flow chart in his own notebook as she spoke, she pushed it right over the edge straight to insulting. "You have this awkward infatuation with Allura for months where you worship her from afar and never really talk to her because you're afraid of what might happen. Enter Keith," Pidge drew their names in little circles and began attaching arrows to key words like "rejection," "pining," "fear," and a few more that Lance didn't want to see.

"Keith's different than Allura," Pidge continued. "He needs you, and you love that. He's a hurricane of drama, and you pour a week of your energy into him and manage to wake up his emotions without sabotaging yours. You guys form a bond. You spend every waking minute with him being your helpful, sweet self, and that's good. It's leading somewhere good too. Until you think he doesn't need you anymore. Until you start thinking that you need him more than he needs you. Then that freaks you out and you pull back, which makes him think you aren't interested and _he_ pulls back."

Pidge drew an arrow from Keith pointing to the emotions that connected Lance and Allura, illustrating how Lance was treating his relationship with both of them the exact same way, with a hesitant fear of future rejection that would cost him both. Then she created another circle, another name. The arrows and circles getting increasingly messy.

"Enter Romelle," she went on, merciless. "Who turns your weird love triangle into a tight and perfect quad." Pidge crossed out all the circles and moved to the bottom of the page where she drew a rendition of a Punnett square – Lance and Allura on the top, Keith and Romelle on the bottom. "Except it's not perfect because everyone with eyes can see that Keith couldn't be less interested in Romelle, and you are trying too hard with Allura because you wanted the quad to be the solution that kept you close to Keith." Bold lines scrawled in, separating Romelle and Keith, but then also Lance and Keith, and Lance and Allura. "Since Keith can't handle being with Romelle, and he doesn't want to ruin anything he thinks is going on between you and Allura by rejecting her best friend, he is breaking himself out of the whole thing and running away into the military. If you want to stop him, you will have to take a chance and tell him how you feel about him."

Pidge wrote the word 'confession' in all capital letters to the side of the square, drawing arrows toward Lance and Keith. Lance shook his head, done with all of it. He pulled the notebook back, flipping the page again to start over.

"Keith's wanted to join the military since he was thirteen years old," Lance protested. "And he's only just been given the opportunity to make that happen. For the first time in his life, he's free to make choices for himself. He's not ready to be in _any_ kind of committed relationship, and even if he were, it wouldn't be with me." Lance's throat tightened, remembering how Keith pulled back, flinching from under Lance's hand. How Lance's relationship with Allura was only because Keith had brought them together, a parting thank-you gift for Lance's help. How could his friends not see this? They were confusing Keith's gratitude for something much more.

"Lance, why aren't you getting this?" Pidge pressed him, no longer sounding angry, just fiercely trying to get her point across. "_You _are making decisions for him. _You_ are taking choices away from him."

"I'm staying out of his way," Lance argued. "It's not fair for me to ask him to give up on his dreams just because I want him to stay here."

"Lance," Pidge started again, but Lance jumped in on top of her.

"I'm not doing it!" He yelled, startling her. "I left my family and my country so I could come here and become a doctor, and they all hate it, but they are supporting me in my choice. If I'm allowed to be selfish like that and stay here because it's something that I wanted for myself most of my life, then I sure as hell will support anyone else in what they want to do, no matter who or where it is or how I feel about it."

"Lance," Hunk interjected, still quiet, still gentle, but Lance was speaking too fast and too hard to stop now.

"I got what I wanted," Lance said decisively. "I got my scholarship. I came to America. I got the girl. I got everything I asked for at the expense of abandoning my family. And now it's my turn to stay behind while you all go fulfill your dreams. And I cannot be selfish about it. I'm not taking that away. Not from you and not from Keith. That's not fair."

Pidge deflated during his tirade, her head tilting as it usually did when a new idea struck her from out of nowhere. Lance had never meant to tell them how hurt he was that they were leaving him behind, but it had pushed itself out in the heat of that moment and he couldn't take it back now.

"Lance," Pidge said, looking at his quilt, looking rather ashamed. He hadn't wanted to do that. He didn't want to make them feel guilty for leaving him the way his brothers had done to him. Why couldn't they have just left him alone? "We don't want to leave you."

"I know," Lance allowed, full of remorse. Why had he said that? Why had he brought it into the open? "But I can't come with you, so you have to. And so does Keith. I get it; I did the same thing."

"But why can't you –" Pidge stressed, but stopped when Lance's phone rang. Dr. Delacroix's number appearing on the screen. Unusual.

"I have to take this," Lance excused himself, though neither Hunk nor Pidge moved at all as he answered. Hunk blocked the doorway, so Lance had no choice but to stay and talk to the doctor right there in front of them. He clicked the button, staring at the floor.

"Lance?" Dr. Delacroix began before he'd even said anything. "Are you busy? Can you come to the ER?"

"Right now?" Lance asked, wondering and worried. Why would she want him after dark on a Sunday night?

"Yes," Dr. Delacroix answered briskly, and Lance decided that he'd better stop asking stupid questions and start putting on his coat. Obviously, this was an emergency. "I need you to set up an IV for me. The only other nurse I would trust to do it is off for the weekend and I can't get him to answer his phone. Will you come?"

"I'm on my way," Lance assured, though he looked up at his friends as he said it to make sure they understood that he was leaving this conversation, that it was finished as far as he was concerned. "Give me fifteen minutes."

"Less if you can manage," Dr. Delacroix requested before hanging up. Lance couldn't help but feel slightly relieved that he now had a good excuse for getting out of here, though it came at the expense of whoever the patient in triage needing an IV happened to be.

"I've got to go," Lance explained, standing up and beginning to slip past Hunk, who hesitantly stood to the side for him, his expression apprehensive and curious. "Dr. Delacroix needs me in the ER."

"I didn't know you were on call for the ER," Pidge said, put out, not liking that Dr. Delacroix had interrupted their discussion, that she felt that she could just phone up Lance and rip him from whatever he was doing any time she liked.

"I didn't either," Lance responded, more calm than he felt. "But she wouldn't have called if she had anyone else."

Pidge gave a frustrated sort of huff, shaking her head. "When are you going to learn?" She muttered under her breath as Lance left the room. He didn't understand what she meant. If this was still something about Keith or if she were just frustrated that he was getting out of any lecture she had remaining to give him.

Hunk didn't say anything, hadn't said much this whole time, but he watched Lance get into his boots and coat with sad, brown eyes. Whatever Lance had thrown at Pidge would have hit Hunk harder, and Lance knew that now, though he hadn't stopped to think much about it in the moment. He owed him an apology, but it would have to wait until he got back. When he could do it properly – maybe go over the whole flip chart with Pidge again, more open-minded this time.

"I'll be back soon," Lance promised, though he actually had no idea what he was leaving them for or how long it would take for him to return. "Save my sandwich for me?" That seemed to pacify Hunk because he gave Lance a small smile and a nod, which was good enough for Lance to leave on.

He hurried through the bitter cold of the almost abandoned campus, most of the students snuggled into the warmth of their apartments at this time of night. He wanted to run but didn't trust himself not to sprawl flat on the concrete if he hit any ice, so he kept at a brisk walk, wondering what was waiting for him at the ER, wondering if this was the start of something that would happen more and more often. Wondering if he wouldn't be grateful for that once he was alone in his apartment after everyone had gone their separate ways.

The lines on Pidge's page kept jumping into his head as he hurried toward the hospital. The arrows pointing at Keith and Lance from the huge commanding confession. Pidge might not have noticed, but Lance had. There were two arrows, which meant that Lance wasn't the only one who could confess. Keith could have done it too. Keith could have told Lance if he'd been interested. But he hadn't. He'd never said anything to Lance. Nothing about a future together, nothing that hinted that they were anything more than rather new friends. He'd even gone out of his comfort zone to get Lance a _girlfriend_. Which meant, of course, that there was nothing on Keith's end to confess in the first place, and Lance risked losing him completely if he were to freak him out with any kind of suggestion about it. Better leave it as it was. They were friends, and that was good enough. Allura was with him, and that was good enough. Dr. Delacroix needed him in the ER, and that was also going to be good enough. At least until . . .

Flickers of memory shivered against Lance's throat, making him swallow. Remnants of nondescript but very real pain watching Keith and Romelle together last night at the party. Lance understood now that there was no future there, but he would somehow have to prepare himself for when it happened the next time. Undoubtedly, Keith would find someone else, someone he did want to be with. And if Lance were his friend, well, that was another choice that he was going to have to support no matter what. He wanted it for Keith at the same time he never wanted to see it. But then again it could be a very long time before he had to come to terms with it. After all, Keith was going into the Air Force where he likely wouldn't have time or opportunity to meet and fall in love with anyone. Better to not worry about it until there actually was something to worry about. Though worrying about something before it had a chance to happen seemed to be Lance's superpower.

Lance didn't have any more time to go over it now, however. Not what Pidge had said, not some future when Keith introduced Lance to the love of his life. He'd reached the ER, entering the welcome warmth through the ambulance doors and throwing his coat into that little office where he once sat with Dr. Delacroix going over a testimony proving Keith's innocence that had never even been used.

The doctor herself met him halfway to the central nurse's station, a lab coat for him in her hands. He hadn't taken the time to change into scrubs, so he tossed the coat on over his jeans and sweater.

"Thanks for coming," Dr. Delacroix said, motioning for Lance to follow her, wasting no time. "We've gone through two techs already to get this going, and the mother is understandably upset, so the next stick has to be the one that works."

"Mother?" Lance broke in with the question, gently prodding Dr. Delacroix into remembering that she hadn't given him a single piece of information about what he was walking into. Except now he knew that he'd be working with a minor.

"Right," Dr. Delacroix quipped, pausing in front of a triage door, the twist at the corner of her mouth impatient that she had to take the time to explain this. But it wasn't like Lance could read her mind or anything. "The patient is a three-week old, African-American infant with extreme symptoms of RSV – wheezing, rapid breathing, lethargy, and dehydration. I have him on oxygen already, but the IV set up is proving delicate and complicated. Which is why I asked for you."

Lance heard himself inhale all that information, startled. RSV. _Three weeks old_. And Dr. Delacroix had called for _him_ to do this? Suddenly he felt that staying in his apartment and listening to Pidge would have been the easier thing to do this evening.

"Me?" Lance whispered, as if there had been some mistake. As if Dr. Delacroix had accidentally called him instead of paging the person she actually needed. Lance still didn't know exactly how he'd been able to successfully place Keith's IV in that ambulance, and if that was the event that had made her call him, then he'd better give her the full disclaimer right now. "Dr. Delacroix – I've never . . not on a baby."

"This is the ER," Dr. Delacroix responded flatly, unmoved in her decision that Lance should be the one to do this. "You'll encounter something you've never done on a daily basis. I wouldn't have called you if I didn't think you could do it better than anyone already in the building. Now let's go." She pushed through the door without waiting for a response, leaving him with no choice but to follow her in.

This triage room seemed much bigger than the one Lance had stayed in with Keith, but that was probably because there was no bed in here. Instead, a small, plastic bassinette on wheels dominated as the focal point. A frightened, tired-looking woman sat pulled up close in the uncomfortable waiting chair, guarding her baby, one arm at an awkward angle so that she could keep a hand on the infant's head. Her other hand covered her face as she slumped against the crib cart. She might have been a little older than thirty – or worry and exhaustion may have added eight years to her posture, forehead, and eyes.

The baby, Lance noticed as he walked close enough to see, remained motionless under the light receiving blanket that had been brought in to keep him warm. His tiny chest fluttered in and out as he struggled to breathe through his inflamed airway, that one activity wearing him out too much for him to wiggle, eat, or cry. He wore a medical bootee on one foot which monitored all his stats, and a breathing mask was strapped tight around his mouth and nose. Lance involuntarily drew a deeper breath himself as he watched, immediately wanting to start doing something that would help, that would give the baby and his mother ease and rest.

The woman raised her head as Dr. Delacroix approached with Lance, all her movements slow and sluggish. Out of the corner of his eye, Lance saw Dr. Delacroix put out her palm toward him, an indication that he stop where he was and wait for her to explain. His gaze kept pinning itself on the baby, his miniature clenched hands. Any one of Lance's textbooks probably outweighed him.

"We're getting a room ready for you," Dr. Delacroix told the mother in place of a greeting. "Someone will be in soon with the hospital admittance paperwork for you to sign, but before that, I called in a specialist to place your son's IV."

Lance felt the mother's dark eyes settle suspiciously on him, and he did his best to appear as though he weren't completely shocked to be called a specialist. He tried to radiate calm, professional capability. The kind that people have when their personal lives are in order. When what they've just been asked to do is for the hundredth time instead of the first. For a moment, locking eyes with this woman who had come here because she didn't know what else to do, Lance couldn't remember anything else that had happened tonight, or last night. He had no memories outside of this room, outside of watching the small boy in the bassinette breathe. Emergencies were rather singularly soothing in this one regard, able to wipe out everything else going on.

"You're going to stab him again?" The woman asked, her voice a waterfall of tears barely held back by the dam of her pride. There was worry there, and guilt. Pain that she hadn't been enough to help her son, that she'd had to bring him here to a strange, uncomfortable room where she had no control, where two techs before Lance had poked her baby with needles, hurt him when he was already suffering, and both times it hadn't even worked.

"Only one more time," Lance heard himself promise, his own words heard from far away, like someone else had said them, the Incident Commander in Charge. Dr. Delacroix sent him a sidelong look, but Lance wasn't sure what she meant by it.

"He needs fluids and medication," Dr. Delacroix said matter-of-factly, only a bit of impatience bleeding through. "And the best way to get those into him is through an IV."

"Are you even a doctor?" The mother questioned Lance, a hint of helpless frustration layered over the words.

"No," Lance replied honestly, knowing he didn't look like any kind of specialist, or reliably competent, standing there in his jeans and sneakers, not even old enough to drink legally in this country, but Dr. Delacroix cut in before he could say anything else.

"Mr. McClain is a qualified EMT and extremely talented at placing IVs in unconventional situations," Dr. Delacroix edified Lance, sounding as though she had said the same thing to countless other mothers, that she called on Lance all the time. "I understand your hesitation, but your baby needs help, and he is the best we have. I called him from home to do this for you."

"Only once?" The woman repeated what Lance had promised earlier, caving in, knowing that the IV needed to happen, even though she was having a hard time trusting in Lance despite anything Dr. Delacroix said about it. He couldn't blame her. After all, she had seen two other people, older and more professional, fail already tonight. Lance made solid eye contact with her again.

"Once," he said, practically vowed, and she sighed in defeat even as she half-nodded in consent. Dr. Delacroix also nodded at Lance, a signal to get started. He went to the sink to wash his hands thoroughly before gloving them and pulling the smallest cannula kit from the drawer. Purple, 28-guage, for neonates.

He took his time, looking carefully at the infant as he readied the tape and his nerves. So small. Such a small, weak little guy with smooth, black, beautiful skin. The veins in the hand and arm were out of the question. He may be lying still now, but that kind of stillness wouldn't last for long once the medication started helping. Lance didn't like the idea of placing the IV in the foot either for similar reasons. No, for someone this tiny the best vein would be the superficial temporal, which ran under the scalp, along the side of the head. It would look disturbing, but it would be safest and easiest to place.

"Do we have a razor?" Lance asked Dr. Delacroix, who silently retrieved it from the stock cabinets and handed it over along with a tube of gel, which Lance squirted first onto his fingers to warm it before smearing it gently against the baby's head. He could tell the mother was watching closely, as though she'd be able to see if he made a mistake, but it seemed she sat across the room rather than practically right on top of where he worked. He noticed the familiar sensation of complete focus, the dimming of everything outside of what he needed to do.

He shaved as little of the baby's tight, dark brown curls as possible, just above his right ear. Then he asked Dr. Delacroix to reposition the light, even though he knew already that this was something he'd do better with his fingers than with his eyes. He ran the tip of his ring finger around the patch he'd just shaved, searching for the vein. Now he couldn't sense the women in the room at all, neither the mother nor Dr. Delacroix. He scrubbed the area sterile, removing any hair or gel residue. The infant didn't like any of the foreign attention. He squirmed weakly, fussing without any energy to actually muster a true cry. Lance tried to speed up a little to minimize the effort. In truth, the needle part was actually the fastest once the prep work was complete and he'd decided where it should go. Using the same finger as a guide, Lance neatly tapped into the vein with the smallest possible catheter. The baby whimpered but did not move as Lance taped the apparatus in place, ready for whatever tubing Dr. Delacroix may want to plug into it.

He heard a small exhalation close by, the first stimulus to break into his concentration. Lance lifted his gaze to see the mother staring at him, eyes weary and troubled but grateful. She had removed her hands at some point before Lance started his procedure, but now she had them both hovered over the bassinette, as though she were afraid to touch her son now that he had a needle taped against the side of his head. Lance didn't like that. Somehow, it reminded him of his own mother, how she must have looked sitting at Rachel's side at the hospital before she died, helpless, afraid, and separated.

Without deliberating too much about what Dr. Delacroix might think of what he was doing, Lance carefully rewrapped the boy in the receiving blanket in such a way that the IV site was covered. Then he lifted him, oxygen tube and all, so he could place him into the warm safety of his mother's arms. A position that would soothe them both.

"He needs you most," Lance told the woman, a truth that he knew inside his heart, a shared understanding as another boy who missed his mother's arms. And he knew she needed to hear that, needed to know that her presence was just as much a medicine as whatever would be attached to the IV.

"Thank you," she whispered, barely able to get the words out as she instinctively cradled her baby against the warmth of her chest, sighing in relief to have him back again, though they still had a long recovery process ahead of them. Lance could only nod a response, then had to turn away, fumbling at removing his gloves.

"The nurse will be in with the IV medication soon. It will get better from here," Dr. Delacroix promised, resting a sure hand against the small of Lance's back like a grounding wire, steering him out of the room – his part in this complete. He let himself be pushed into the hall, then followed Dr. Delacroix obediently to the back office where she sat him purposefully down to study him in the aftermath.

"Is he going to be ok?" Lance asked, looking at his coat on the desk but seeing only the baby wrapped in the blanket and tubing, the rapid, tiny movements of his breath.

"His chances are good," Dr. Delacroix replied, her voice even, staring at Lance critically. "And how about you? How are you doing?" She sounded serious, almost worried, completely changed from when she'd commandingly pushed Lance into the triage room. "You look stunned; let me see your hands."

Lance slowly lifted them as commanded, fingers extended, everything solid and steady. No trembling at all even as the world sped up to its normal pace around him again. He'd done his best back there, and he'd kept his promise. The baby could get the help he needed. There was no need to feel anything other than satisfied that everything had gone as well as could be expected.

"Good," Dr. Delacroix breathed approvingly. "That was . . . well, I actually hate saying this so early in our working together, but I honestly can't think of any other way to put it. That was perfectly executed, Lance. I'm very impressed."

"Thanks?" Lance replied, not intending to make the statement sound like a question, but he was reeling a little from both the situation and the compliment. "But you could have done it too."

"If that were true, I would have done it myself before I called you," Angelique said, a little gruffly. But her response helped ease the nagging feeling Lance had that he'd just taken another test. Dr. Delacroix was treating him more and more like a partner than a student. There was still massive amounts of knowledge he could gain by being in her presence, for sure, but the way he felt with her now made it seem less intimidating. Not any less challenging; he would certainly have to remain on high alert whenever he stood at her side in this place, but somehow knowing that she trusted his abilities, some of them more than her own, made the thought of being with her more exciting than terrifying.

"I appreciate your coming in on such short notice," Angelique repeated, though her tone had changed. This time is sounded more like a dismissal, which felt as abrupt to Lance as the original summons. That's it? He'd come all the way over here for a procedure that took less than twenty minutes? Granted, it had been an essential procedure, but knowing what was waiting for him at home, Lance wasn't ready to leave yet.

"No problem, what's next?" Lance piped in before Dr. Delacroix could officially tell him good-bye or leave the room without him. She looked confused.

"For you, nothing," she said, with a half-shrug. "I've already interrupted your night. You're done; you can go back to it." Lance tried not to squirm at the thought of that, all the impossible scenarios and uncomfortable questions that would slam into him the second he walked through his front door. It was different here. Everything ran on smooth, efficient protocol. The scenarios here had only a fraction of correct answers. Here it was completely obvious what the next thing should be. And now Lance understood how he could push back what he was trying to avoid in his life by being focused here. With the concentration he'd just needed, there had been no opportunity to dwell on how Hunk, Pidge, _and _Keith were all leaving.

Since he didn't want to think or talk about that, at all, following Dr. Delacroix in the ER at her unforgiveable, relentless pace suddenly seemed soothing. Lance laced his fingers. Even though they weren't shaking, he didn't want to take any chances about it. He stayed seated where Angelique had placed him, but he lifted his eyes to hers, trying to push into his face how serious he was about what he said next.

"Could I please stay?" Lance asked, voice on the edge of begging. Angelique folded her arms, leaning back, her eyes narrowed as she unashamedly looked him up and down. Lance watched the word 'why' form on her lips, but she pressed them together without ever saying it. She could tell; Lance knew he wasn't good at hiding things, especially not from her. She knew that his request had more to do with circumstances outside the hospital than anything that could need him inside of it.

"Fine, but we aren't making a habit of this," she warned, almost as a sigh, and Lance bit back a too-triumphant grin, jumping to his feet. He held the door for her, keeping silent as she shook her head on her way out, muttering under her breath. He thought he heard the phrase 'death of me' as she passed him, but he quickly dismissed it. There was nothing wrong here. He had a lot to learn. She had a lot to show him. He was already here, why not start now? Lives were going to be saved, and Lance wouldn't have to think very much about how his entire world was shifting. By the time he left this hospital – it would have already happened.

The ER quickly became Lance's defense and coping mechanism. The presiding Dean and Provost consented to allowing Lance to trade hands-on hours in the hospital for some of his class credits, and despite Dr. Delacroix's warning about habits, she never turned Lance away when he asked to shadow her and she stopped being surprised to find him waiting for her at the nurse's station at the start of her shifts. Over the next two weeks, he reorganized his entire schedule, feeling the pull of both places. He wanted to be home so he wouldn't miss out on any of these last weeks with Hunk and Pidge. On the other hand, he didn't want to be there to see how Hunk had gifted some of his herb plants, sold some of his bulkier equipment pieces. Pidge stripped herself out of the apartment in a single weekend, which hurt like hell, but at least Lance hadn't been there to watch her carry everything out in a cardboard box as he'd escaped early on in her packing to watch how Angelique handled multiple gunshot wounds.

He ghosted in and out of the place he used to consider the safest, most comfortable haven in the entire United States, no longer quite happy there as it constantly changed and shrank around him. But at least for the moments he _was_ home, his friends were becoming increasingly too busy in their own business to have time to lecture Lance about his. All talk of Keith and what Lance should do about him ceased. Instead, Lance would come into the apartment to find them researching housing in faraway places like Pasadena, La Cañada, Altadena, and Arcadia, making pro and con lists for each location, or on the phone with the records office to get copies of transcripts.

On the best and worst nights, Lance would open the door to find Keith and Hunk sitting together at the table, studying for Keith's GED test, and on these evenings, Lance found every excuse he could to linger near them, as long as he could despite how much it hurt. He would make himself a sandwich and eat it slowly, seated at the table listening to Hunk quiz Keith on algebra and geometry basics. Sometimes they even allowed Lance to participate, especially for English questions. As the non-native speaker, Lance knew more grammar rules than both of them put together. Or when they didn't need him, he would drag his homework to the coffee table, sitting on the floor cross-legged in front of the couch, watching surreptitiously as Keith ran his hand through his hair, his gaze unconsciously zooming up and to the right as if all answers he struggled with could be found written on the ceiling in that direction. But Lance learned quickly that he could only look for a few seconds. Keith always knew when Lance stared too long and would return his gaze, forcing Lance to dive into whatever textbook he'd brought out with him, pretending that he had never taken his eyes off the page at all, hoping he wasn't visibly blushing. Because no matter how often he explained the impossibility of the situation to himself, looking at Keith was a pleasure and a warmth, an indulgence that seemed worth the pain. Lance wanted to enjoy that sight and that feeling as long as possible, even knowing how much it would kill him when it was over.

When he wasn't at the ER, or work, or class, or watching Keith take practice tests, Lance struggled to make time for Allura. Between his commitments, her schedule, and the fact that she lived off campus and most often needed to drive home before dark, the only times they could successfully get together seemed to be at that coffee shop in the early afternoons and on Wednesday nights at the plasma center. Allura had returned to her normal day and time, and Lance noticed money change hands among his coworkers the first evening she came in and greeted him with a slightly dramatic kiss. Romelle was never with her, though they spoke of her a little. Apparently, Ben had asked her out to the observatory for a late-night meteor shower viewing and had put together a rather impressive picnic dinner on the floor near the telescope. Allura mentioned how much fun Romelle had, how safe she felt with Ben, and hinted rather strongly that if Keith didn't get his act together, he was going to lose her.

Lance gently shrugged this off, knowing that Romelle finding happiness with someone else was exactly what Keith wanted for her. And as far as Lance could tell, scientists were some of the purest souls alive, a beautiful combination of innocence and intelligence. And despite being thrown together at a party because of Pidge, if Ben had looked down from the heavens long enough to put that kind of effort into sharing his world with Romelle, it would probably be best for everyone to let that run its course – however far it would go. Though hearing about Romelle's fancy date put some pressure on Lance. He hadn't done anything like that for Allura, didn't even know where to start. He didn't do anything cool like study constellations, and it certainly wouldn't be any kind of romantic to show her the inside workings of the hospital. They were barely able to have coffee together, though he did call her every night to make sure she got home ok, ask her questions about how her day had gone, and try to find the next space in their lives where they could fit each other into them.

They did come together, except for Romelle, for one last small party, three weeks after Hunk's birthday where Lance had learned that his days with his friends were numbered. They celebrated Keith's success in passing the GED – his temporary diploma displayed proudly on the table. They celebrated Hunk and Pidge's farewell. All of their physical presence had been carefully removed from the apartment, sold, gifted, or packed away. In the morning, everything would be loaded into Hunk's car and they would start the long, 30-hour drive to California. Keith had a little more than a week left, but he'd already purchased his plane ticket to Texas.

Just like the last one, this party brought new and rather disturbing information as Shiro revealed that he'd quit his job in order to follow Keith south. Apparently, the reason he'd been on medical leave and not actually discharged was due to how much the military wanted Shiro to return in a non-combat position. They'd been requesting a timeline for when he thought he'd be able to come back as an instructor almost from the first day Shiro left the hospital with his new arm. Now that Keith was settled and decided on becoming a pilot, Shiro felt the time had come to get back into it as well.

Lance couldn't help but squawk out a protest about this revelation. Is this how Americans worked? Where Lance grew up, families lived and died within a small circle of where they were born. Lance had been the anomaly, leaving the country, and it had been the biggest upset in his village for months. Actually, it probably still _was_. But even he was only working so he could go back with something better to offer them than mangoes and tobacco. So it amazed him how casually Americans seemed to roam their immense country. Hunk grew up in Hawaii, left it for Chicago, and now he was eagerly ready to head back thousands of miles west. Pidge was a Wisconsin girl, though she hated to admit it, and it was no secret that she longed to see what waited for her in California. Shiro had roots here, a job, a house, but he didn't seem too sad about leaving it behind. Out of all of them, Keith's excitement made the most sense. He was moving away from tragedy, incarceration, and abuse toward structure and freedom – a place where he could belong and thrive for the first time. And Shiro was going with him. But Lance couldn't help but see the pattern. Americans were nomadic to the extreme. Then again, Lance's entire island fit into just one of their smaller states. There was so much space, so many different sub-cultures and climates within one government. How could they help but want to experience all of it?

Allura was the only outlier. She'd been born and raised in the Chicago area and seemed content to remain. She hadn't gone to New York for college, though she'd had the opportunity. She still lived at home with her parents. Lance found himself holding her hand tighter as he processed this, glad that Allura at least was ok with staying put.

They worked through it – the bittersweet nature of their last get-together. Lance forced himself to smile and joke about where they were going, extending the promise that he'd still be here if they ever wanted to return. Hunk hovered a little, never asking if Lance would be ok – at least not out loud, but the question came in every glance and gesture as if he'd spoken it. Pidge and Shiro kept their distance, as though their hearts were already somewhere else. And just like last time, Lance found himself pressed in the middle of the couch with Keith and Allura at his sides, his arms thrown casually around both their shoulders. Except it didn't feel casual to him. It felt as though they were the only things holding him together. Shiro snapped their picture as they sat there that way.

No one said good-bye that night, though they somehow parted to their separate houses and rooms, much later than anyone had planned.

Lance made coffee early that morning. He numbly helped Hunk carry the last of his boxes to the car. He helped Pidge fold up the blankets and sheets from the couch one more time and didn't shed tears over it. He swallowed them into an increasingly large knot in his throat, which made it hard to talk to his family for very long that Sunday morning. Hunk and Pidge politely waited until he had finished, drinking their coffee, having one more breakfast together. But Lance could tell that they wanted to get going, that they had run out of things to tend to before they left. There was nothing remaining except the hardest part of leaving.

Hunk grabbed Lance hard and tight, murmuring gratitude into his ear for being a wonderful roommate, for all the fun times they'd shared. He offered an open invitation for Lance to come stay with them in California whenever and however often he wanted, which Lance appreciated even though he doubted he'd ever be able to really go.

Pidge allowed herself to be held too, surprising Lance by suddenly and fiercely clinging to him, pressing her face into his chest. Lance bent down so he could put his palm against the back of her head, their cheeks touching, amazed again that a soul so feisty could exist in such a small vessel. He remembered all their many arguments and teasings, and all the times they had wordlessly made up from them, how they spoke most often without saying anything.

"You're still my brother," Pidge told him authoritatively. "Doesn't matter how far away you are."

"Good," Lance tried to return, but his voice sounded husky and flat.

"And I'll be there to put you back together," Pidge promised, rather mysterious now. Lance backed off a little to read whatever clues might be in her face. "When the time comes," Pidge finished, nodding solemnly at him. He almost asked her what she meant, but she made a sudden leap so she could hug him around the neck. He barely managed to balance them without tumbling over backward, holding her tight.

"You're so stupid; I love you," she said in a rush, and Lance smiled even as he lost control over the tears he didn't want to show them.

"You too," Lance whispered, but that was all Pidge could take. She ripped herself away and dashed for the door. Hunk gripped Lance's hand one more time, promising to call often, promising to write, promising to send pictures, promises and more promises that this was not the end of their friendship. That it would continue no matter how much extra effort it might take. Lance was already extremely familiar with how much effort it would take; he'd been doing the long-distance relationship thing with his family for over a year. But he was more than willing to add Hunk and Pidge to the email list, to make a dedicated night, or a dedicated time every night, to call them. Even if he had to single-handedly keep the communication up; he was ready for it. He couldn't lose them, not today, not a month from now. He would not allow them to fade away through neglect, no matter how busy he became. He wouldn't let them grow apart, though he did let Hunk go.

He counted the minutes in his head after Hunk shut the door behind him. Lance paced through the apartment, staring sadly at Hunk's empty bedroom, restored to the sterile, un-personalized nothing that all the bedrooms in this entire building looked like before a student breathed life into them. Bed, desk, chair, carefully emptied and closed closet. Lance couldn't look at it for long. He realized faster that he couldn't look at the kitchen either. No bread rising on the counter. No plants taking up space near the wall. The missing boxes of electronics made the whole place bigger; it almost echoed with the emptiness of what was now gone.

Lance counted the minutes he thought it would take for Hunk and Pidge to get downstairs to the car. How long it would take for them to pull out of Stony Island parking for the last time. He counted minutes until he couldn't take the quiet anymore. Then he changed into pale blue scrubs and threw on his coat – heading for the hospital.

No one expected him there, but he'd become such a regular sight no one denied him as he made himself useful. He tidied filing. He put together trauma kits and restocked the cabinets in the triage rooms. He threw himself into every job that needed doing that no one really wanted to do. He catalogued equipment, tracking down the random missing stethoscopes or blood pressure cuffs, returning them to their stations. He wiped down trays and machines and took loads of blankets and towels back and forth from the hospital laundry. Dr. Delacroix wasn't even scheduled to work today, and he'd known that before, though he thanked every nurse who knew him, knew that they worked together, for telling him that she wasn't coming in …and then he continued to stay anyway. Because now he really couldn't go home. Not yet. Not today.

He probably would have slept in the ER, on the floor in that back office, but one of the nurses interrupted him at the station where he was testing all the available pens at the desks, throwing away the ones that were out of ink.

"Your ride's here," she told him, plucking the pen straight out of his hand and scattering all his thoughts at the same time.

"Huh?" Lance asked, confused, drifting. What did she mean his ride was here? He hadn't called for a ride. He hadn't even told anyone where he was, so how could anyone be here to give him a ride?

"Don't ask me," the nurse said, shrugging, deliberately returning the pen to the holder on the desk, untested. Lance felt a twitch in his jaw about that, but knew he'd look obsessed and weird if he picked it up again to finish what he started with it. "They asked for you and said they were here to take you home."

"Who are they?" Lance vocalized, mentally shaking himself, the last sentence she'd spoken only barely getting through to him. There was more than one person here asking for him? Who even knew he was here?

"I don't actually care," she said slowly, spacing out the words and emphasizing each one, smiling mostly to show her teeth. "Provided they get you out of here. Now. _Step away from the pens_."

Lance must have resembled a kicked puppy because she sighed as he stood up, grabbing his elbow before he turned away from her. "Look, try to have a good night, ok?" She said as an attempted patch, though she couldn't really look at him anymore. "I'll see you later . . hopefully when you're more . . .you." Lance glanced at her nametag, her words stinging a little as he realized how well she recognized him, but he had no idea who she was.

"Thanks, Alecia," he responded to her, forcing himself to be mentally present for at least a few seconds to tell her good-bye, hoping he pronounced her name correctly, hoping his tone suggested that he'd known her name all along and hadn't needed her badge to tell him. He should probably work on that if he planned to move in here.

"Shoo," she breathed, giving him a little shove, giving him enough emotional energy to retrieve his coat, though it only lasted as far as the entryway doors to the ER. The guys who had come for him waited on the other side of those doors, but without Hunk and Pidge, who were probably somewhere in Nebraska by now, Lance had no idea who would have even bothered to look for him. It made the doors look bigger, and Lance feel small and lonely. He pushed the doors open anyway, surprised by their weight, and half-stumbled into ER reception.

Lance noticed immediately that all the glass doors and windows of the waiting room were black. Night had fallen outside in the world while he'd trapped himself inside the windowless horseshoe of the ER. Despite the blackness, he felt himself squint as though walking out into a too-bright space. It wasn't bright, but it was too big. And cold. He pulled his coat closer to himself as the automatic doors pulsed apart, letting in a gust of February-frozen winter dark.

"Lance, you ok?" Came familiar words from a familiar voice, and Lance twisted from the entryway to see Keith standing just a few feet away. Shiro stood with him, both still in their coats. They'd been facing each other, but now that they'd seen him, Keith broke away toward Lance, eyes large with their strange quality of being sharp and gentle at the same time.

Lance inhaled to answer, but the words got tangled by the sudden, dramatic reappearance of that enormous knot in the back of his throat. Immediately upon seeing Keith, Lance's eyes were stinging, and he had to pause, frozen just outside the doors to the triage rooms, closing tears behind his eyelids, clenching his teeth together to make sure he stayed quiet. He took two blind, blurry, and staggering steps toward Keith before he felt Keith's steadying hands circle around his biceps. Lance let his head sag, relieved and tormented when his forehead came to rest against Keith's shoulder.

"You idiot; have you been here all day?" Keith chided him, not letting go. "Why didn't you answer your phone? Why didn't you call me?"

Because you never answer. The words shot through Lance's head immediately, though he wouldn't have said them if he could.

"How'd you know I was here?" Lance managed instead, leaving his head resting against Keith. It felt good, safe, warm. Keith smelled like heat and detergent, plus some kind of spice, as though he'd just come from a restaurant where strong scents mingled together for days at a time.

"Fritz," Shiro answered, joining them, putting his strong and soothingly weighted robotic hand on Lance's shoulder.

"Officer Guist?" Lance repeated the more formal name, the only one he dared use for him. He lifted his head, but didn't step out of the comfort of the circle. He wanted the touch, wanted to bury his face in Keith's neck and throw his arms around his waist. Wanted to keep him forever. "How did he . .?" He trailed off, trying to figure out a path where that would even make sense.

"One of the nurses called Dr. Delacroix wondering why you were here when she wasn't," Keith supplied the connections. "Then she asked her boyfriend to call us to come get you."

Keith paused, his eyes dropping to the floor, suddenly guilty, still holding tight to Lance. "We should have thought to come look for you sooner," he admitted. "I knew today was going to be rough on you. I did try to call, but you never answered."

"Sorry," Lance muttered, realizing that he'd left his phone on his desk. After he'd spoken to his family, he hadn't even thought that anyone else would try to call him.

"Hunk and Pidge said they made it to Nebraska," Keith continued, an effort to be bright threaded through his normally dark voice. "It's a boring drive, but other than that, they're ok."

"That's good," Lance said, trying to mean it. By this time, Shiro and Keith were steering him toward the exit, and he was walking automatically between them, glad to relinquish any of his thought or free will into their hands.

"Lance, did you eat anything today?" Shiro asked, and Lance felt the gaze of a trained social worker fall on him. "Are you hungry?"

He hadn't thought about it, had been working very hard to not think about anything today, but Shiro's question woke up his stomach, and he realized that he hadn't stopped to eat once since that long-ago last breakfast. He nodded, feeling sort of ashamed that he'd been on his own for not even a day and he'd completely fallen apart. What was he going to do when Keith left?

"Doesn't matter; he's coming with us anyway," Keith spoke up when Lance didn't. Though it made him think that he should probably be a little bit curious on where they were going. He'd follow Keith just about anywhere right now, but he maybe should ask about their destination.

"Where?" He put out there, just for the principle of the thing, hating how he could only put one or two words together at a time.

"To get you some food, to start," Keith let him know, tugging him out into the parking lot. "And to get your stuff. You're staying with us tonight."

"Keith?" Shiro broke in because this was obviously news to him. Apparently, Keith often made spur-of-the-moment decisions without consulting his brother.

"He can't be alone," Keith pointed out, which caught Lance up on the whole situation. They felt like they were _rescuing_ him? Keith thought he needed a chaperone, that he couldn't be on his own? Well, if that were the case, why hadn't they thought of that before they'd all made the decision to leave the state?

"I better get used to it," Lance interjected between Shiro and Keith. He tried to make his tone playful, but wasn't quite able to keep all the bitterness out.

"We're still here, Lance," Keith reminded him. Yeah, for like a week. "Come on; come with us."

"No, it's ok," Lance protested, wondering what he was doing. He was deliberately excusing himself from time with Keith? He barely had any time with him left! What was he thinking? That he didn't want to be pitied, for one. He didn't want Keith to spend time with him only because he thought Lance was having a nervous breakdown. Which wasn't what this was . . though Lance figured it probably looked that way. He was just trying to keep busy, that's all. And he did need to learn how to go on alone. He couldn't expect Shiro and Keith to show up at the ER all the time. They were leaving too. He had to be more independent from now on. "Thanks for coming to get me, but you can just drop me off at my place. Hunk left enough food in the fridge for the next five days, easy. I don't want to waste it."

"Lance, are you sure?" Shiro pressed him, both his tone and gaze heavy, giving Lance one more chance to stay. To use them as a crutch, to save himself from a long, lonely evening. And he wanted to say he'd changed his mind, wanted so much to go with them. "You're welcome at our place."

"Yeah, I'm sure," Lance said, because sometimes it was better to just get things over with. Rip off bandaids in one horribly painful shot than slowly tear them away. "I'll be fine."

He felt Keith staring at him, all the dark drive to his apartment. Lance did his best not to look at him, not trusting himself to walk away from Shiro's car if he did. Keith's eyes would melt his resolve; he knew that. Not only would he stay with them for the night, he'd probably end up saying something he shouldn't. Something that might ruin the events already in motion. He'd already said things to Hunk and Pidge that he regretted, that damaged the excitement of the next chapter of their lives. He wasn't going to do that to Keith. No way.

Lance thanked them again for the ride as he forced himself out of the warmth of the car and out onto the icy curb in front of his dark apartment. No lights on up there. No music. His table would be almost uncomfortably cleared of gadgets and wires. He was just in the process of closing the door behind him when Keith unexpectedly flashed out and grabbed his wrist, holding him still. Lance snapped his attention, meeting Keith's eyes, which glinted in the winter dark almost dangerously.

"Answer your phone," Keith admonished him, almost a threat. He sounded mad; he was practically growling.

"O-okay," Lance stuttered, which was enough for Keith to release him, though by this point, Lance felt slightly weak and wasn't sure he could walk.

"Last chance," Keith told him, making the cement underneath Lance seem to tilt and sway a little. Maybe he shouldn't go all day without eating again. "Go get your toothbrush; we'll wait. Or I can come up with you."

Oh my God, yes, please come up with me. There's an actual bed you can have now; Hunk isn't using it anymore. You bring _your_ stuff back, Keith. Your dumb duffel bag and your three pairs of jeans. Wear my hoodie. Make coffee. Move in. Please, don't leave me.

Rip off the bandaid, Lance. You can't keep him. He belongs to the military now. With Shiro. Don't you dare hold him back. He's never had a chance like this before. Don't take it away from him.

"You go on home," Lance said, though how he managed to get the words out or make them sound so calm, he had no idea. "You guys have a lot to do without babysitting me. I'm good."

Keith looked rather wounded, one of his eyes actually twitched. But this was for the best. Their relationship had been weird from the very beginning. Now was the time to smooth it out into something sustainable. It wasn't up to Keith to take care of Lance, even though Lance suspected that Keith thought he must owe him something.

"I'll check on you later," Keith said, a comforting promise that he made somehow frightening. Lance seemed to specialize in pissing him off, but at least Lance was able to close the car door now. Then turn around and begin walking toward the apartment entrance. He didn't look back, but he knew from the sound that Shiro and Keith didn't leave until after he was already inside.

Lance only saw Keith once after that night. He gave Lance a heart attack just like the last time he'd appeared in the apartment, the morning of Hunk's birthday. Lance was just getting home from his February shift on the ambulance – another long night behind him. There'd been so many long nights in a row since Hunk and Pidge left. Lance was more careful about it now, spreading out his time between the library, the ER, the lounge downstairs, or just walking around campus for as long as his Cuban blood would allow him to be outside in the cold so no one would suspect that he just didn't want to be at home by himself. He answered his phone when Keith called to check on him and lied to him every time about how he was just fine, just keeping busy, then turning the conversation as quickly as possible to what Keith was up to, how preparations for Texas were going. He called his family. He called Allura every night. He felt himself growing numb inside, but preferred that to the ache he felt when he thought about the day Hunk and Pidge left and the rapidly approaching day when Keith and Shiro would do the same thing.

Still, he had not anticipated Keith to be casually sitting on his couch when he walked in the door at six in the morning after being out all night with the ambulance. He'd closed the door behind him, dropped his bag and keys, and removed his coat and boots before he even noticed Keith sitting there. Good thing Lance was too tired to scream.

"God, Keith!" He burst out instead, grabbing on to the back of a chair to steady himself. He was too exhausted for surprises like this.

"Pidge gave me her key," Keith explained, standing up, watching Lance uneasily. Lance inwardly nodded at that information. It sounded like something she'd do, and Lance had forgotten to even ask her about it. She and Hunk were already in California, doing all the things new residents do. Figuring out where the nearest grocery store is, how long it takes to drive from their new place to their new job. They were busy, but Lance had spoken to them a few times since they got there. "You ok? How'd it go last night?"

Lance didn't want to talk about last night. There'd been three fatalities and none of them had been pretty. Lance and his team had cleaned up after an accidental drug overdose, a homeless man who had been hit by a car while riding a bicycle, and an old man who passed away from a heart attack before they could get to him. It wasn't the old man who haunted Lance, but the trauma in the eyes of his new widow whose reality had been torn out from under her at eighty-six years old. Not to mention the other stuff he'd responded to where no one had died, but the suffering still clung to Lance like the scent of smoke on his uniform.

"Last night was rough," Lance allowed, still gripping the back of the chair.

"You look it," Keith agreed, sounding validated. Lance tested his resolve by lifting his head to look at Keith, amazed anew at how beautiful he was, relishing the way he moved – a fierce sort of grace.

"Yeah, well, kind of in the job description," Lance said, trying to be dismissive about how awful it had been, trying to break the spell Keith cast on him. Even though he still stood frozen with his hands cemented to the chair, most of his weight leaned onto it, hunched over. Time for his normal trick of switching topics before his heart grew any heavier. He might end up just tipping over. "So how are you doing? Did you need me for something?" Except packing. Lance wasn't sure he could actually help Keith pack. It had been hard enough to do it for Hunk. Still, there must be some reason Keith had let himself into the apartment before dawn on a Saturday.

"I'm here to make sure you rest today," Keith said, smiling the way he did when he thought Lance was being ridiculous. "Since last month you almost killed yourself, and I'm not making that mistake twice."

"What – serious?" Lance managed after a long pause where he just stared at Keith with his mouth open. Keith took the opportunity of the question to completely close the distance between them, taking Lance's arm and pulling him toward his bedroom.

"Yes," Keith responded, matter-of-factly, and Lance didn't have enough resolve to resist him. He allowed himself to be dragged toward the hall, all his muscles compliant for whatever Keith wanted.

"Can't I take a shower first?" He begged, but Keith shook his head.

"Sleep first," he maintained, unmoved, and Lance decided to give up. He was tired. He had been pushing himself hard since his roommates left. And if Keith could stay a while, maybe it would be ok. Maybe his apartment wouldn't feel so desolate. Maybe he could actually rest.

"Keith?" Lance started as Keith physically settled him under his covers, still in his uniform.

"You can fight if you want, but I'll win," Keith argued without hearing what Lance had to say. "Whatever you think you need to be doing right now can wait. Lie down."

Lance's mattress had never felt so good before. The perfect temperature, the smoothness of the pillowcase. His eyes started closing by themselves, though he didn't actually want to sleep yet. He had Keith in his bedroom, all to himself. How could he waste that time by falling asleep? But the tension of the ambulance that had wound his muscles tight suddenly snapped loose – so abruptly that he actually winced at the release.

"Hey," Keith said gently, his voice close. Lance wanted to open his eyes to talk to him, but they were too heavy. He hadn't relaxed like this in days. "It's ok; you're home now." Keith spoke like the only other person in the world who could know what it felt like to be spinning out of control, through difficult and deadly situations, and then come to a sudden, heart-wrenching halt. How the transition to peace and rest could hurt, how images and feelings could flicker like flaming nightmares on the sidelines. How they could still burn after they were over.

"Thanks, Keith," Lance whispered, almost whimpering. He twisted his face against his pillow, trying to hide his eyes, squeezing them closed. He reached out with one hand, finding Keith's sleeve and holding on to it, desperate to keep him close. Keith allowed the contact, using his other hand to carefully brush against Lance's cheek before resting his palm on Lance's shoulder. Lance shuddered.

"Go to sleep," Keith encouraged, but a sudden thought jumped into Lance's brain, shaking him awake, forcing him upright. The last time Keith had put him to bed, he'd disappeared while Lance slept. Lance didn't think he could handle that again. His abrupt shift in energy startled Keith.

"Shit, Lance! What the hell?" Keith burst out, confused.

"Please don't leave," Lance begged, knowing he sounded pathetic and needy, but he just couldn't stand it. He was panting with apprehension that he would go to sleep now and wake up alone. "Please."

Keith softened, eyes full of understanding. He returned his warm hands on Lance, gently pushing him back down, pulling the quilt over him.

"I'm not going anywhere," Keith assured him. "I'll be here when you wake up." This time. Today. But it would have to be enough. Lance allowed himself to melt into the mattress again, allowed all the adrenaline in his system to bleed out into it. "Shhh," Keith whispered. "I'm here."

Lance had no choice but to let sleep over take him, his hand clinging tight to Keith's sleeve. His room got hazy, the bed seeming to pivot underneath him, rocking like the back of the ambulance until Keith's hand on his head stilled everything, quieted it down.

"Who's going to look after you?" He thought he heard Keith breathe the question, but it could have been part of a dream. He remembered nothing else after that.

He woke to the rich scent of coffee, and he smiled, relieved, as he hurried out of his room and toward the table. The position of the sun told him he'd probably been out for at least four hours, maybe more. He rushed past the hall, slowing only when he saw Keith sitting at the table.

"You stayed," Lance said, humiliatingly out loud. Keith looked slightly sheepish, knowing that he didn't always stay.

"I promised," he returned, busying himself with pouring Lance his own mug of coffee. "I can't cook," Keith admitted, handing it over, "but I did make this for you."

"It's all I want right now," Lance said, gratefully accepting it with both hands. It felt like years since he'd had Keith's coffee. Keith pulled out a chair for him, and for a little while they both sat there quietly together, sipping coffee as sunshine poured into the room from the sliding balcony doors.

"Sorry I left you alone so long," Lance finally said, wondering what Keith had done with himself while Lance slept. "I crashed hard."

"You needed it," Keith dismissed.

"So," Lance began, trying to make conversation. "You all set for Texas?"

"Yeah," Keith answered, staring at the table. "Flight leaves tomorrow morning."

Lance took another long swallow of hot coffee to melt the ice that suddenly coated his stomach. He'd known what day Keith was leaving, but in the sad blur that was his life now, he'd sort of lost track. "Oh," was the only thing he could think to respond. They sank back into silence. One minute. Two.

"Come with me," Keith shot out suddenly, turning his whole body toward Lance at the table, his face open and eager. Lance blinked, dazed at the invitation.

"What?" He checked. What did Keith mean, come with him? To the airport? Home for one last night together? Surely he didn't mean to Texas?

"Join the Air Force with me," Keith clarified. "A guy with your skills – they'd love to have you. They'll pay for you to finish your doctorate, so you won't need your scholarship. We can do boot camp together."

"Keith," Lance began, not even the heat of the coffee able to melt his insides now. It sounded good. It sounded perfect.

"Let's do it," Keith pressed, caught up in his idea.

"They won't take me, Keith," Lance let him down gently, hating how his words deflated Keith immediately. "I'm not a US citizen, remember? If I want to stay in the country, I have to stay here." But what did it mean that Keith wanted him to come?

That question stayed with Lance the rest of the day, just like Keith did. They hung out, like friends do, and Lance even agreed to stay the night at Shiro's, knowing it would be his last chance to be with Keith, possibly for years.

He spent the day and long into the night drinking in the sight of Keith, watching how easy his relationship with Shiro was, watching how far he had come from the scared and friendless person Lance had found alone in the Snell-Hitchcock apartment. He was doing so much better now, had so much going for him. Lance was happy for him, really, even though it hurt to look at the clock and see how time was running out. He thought often of his notebook page, the way Pidge wrote the word confession, all capital letters, arrows pointing to the two of them. He thought of how Keith had wanted him to go to Texas with him, but knew it was too late. Even if that invitation had been anything close to what Lance hoped it was, it was just too late.

And it continued to grow later and later as the sun came up, as Lance drove with Shiro to Midway airport. And finally it ran out as he allowed himself to hold Keith tight, actually hug him close in the few moments before he stepped through security and out of Lance's life. Keith still wore Lance's hoodie, the straps of his duffel bag over his shoulder. Lance pressed close against him, enjoying his heat for just a few seconds more, wanting to beg him not to go.

"Don't forget me," Lance said instead.

"Impossible," Keith returned, releasing Lance so he could look him in the eye. "You're my best friend. I'll never forget you. Take care of yourself, ok?"

"You too," Lance repeated, allowing Shiro to also hug Keith good-bye, though he promised to come south right after him. Shiro needed a few more weeks to put his affairs in order, but then he too would be gone. He stood with Lance, hand on his shoulder, watching Keith pass through security and up an escalator out of sight. He offered to stay with Lance if he needed some company, offered his assistance anytime Lance might need it. He emphasized that he was Lance's friend now too, that it wasn't just Keith holding them together. He made Lance promise to come to dinner with him next Friday night, just as Keith used to do. Then Shiro dropped Lance off at his apartment, alone again.

He woodenly removed his coat, stared sadly at the coffee mugs from yesterday morning that he'd left in the sink. He took some deep breaths, steadying himself to call his family because no matter how his world had been rocked, it was still another Sunday morning, and they would be expecting to talk to him.

They heard that something was wrong in his voice; he had to tell them everything. How all his close friends were leaving the state, how for the first time since he'd arrived at Stony Island, he actually felt how big this country was, and how small and alone he felt in it. He confessed that the cold, gloomy grayness of this winter was starting to wear on him. He missed the sun, missed the mangoes. He prepared himself to hear how he never should have left.

But his family surprised him with encouragement. They told him they were proud of him. They told him how much they bragged about him to their neighbors. Luis complimented him on his progress in gaining such a respectable mentor at the ER. His mother and Veronica asked him playful questions about the beautiful white-haired girl who kept turning up in his photos that he sent them. They all had requests for pictures they'd like to see next week, an assignment that he could get behind. And all the while he spoke with them, he felt himself energized and renewed, though it wore off quickly as soon as he hung up.

What was he going to do? He shook his head, staring at the apartment, knowing he'd have to get used to this somehow. He couldn't stay on the phone with his family all the time. Couldn't stay at the ER all the time. People figure out how to be by themselves, he lectured himself. There are millions of people on earth right now who actually prefer it. But he didn't know how to turn himself into one of them.

He paced as he thought, trying to keep the creeping loneliness at bay when someone knocked on his door. Confused, but happy to be interrupted, he almost pounced on it.

"Allura!" He exclaimed, surprised to see her standing in the hallway, car keys still dangling from her fingers. "What are you . . I thought you had an event today?"

"I do," Allura said, cool and calm, smiling at him. "But not until tonight. I thought you and I could sneak off and do something fun together for a change." Lance smile faded into suspicion.

"Keith called you, didn't he?" He asked, and she let her eyes float to the ceiling, caught.

"Does it matter?" She returned, pretty in her guilt. "You _do_ look like you just lost your best friend, and I happen to specialize in helping people get over Keith Kogane. Besides, we've both been so busy; we deserve a day for ourselves, don't you think?"

Lance leaned down and kissed her. It made the ache in his chest swell hard to do it, but damn, she was sweet and wonderful and so very _present_ there in the hallway. She smelled soothingly of lavender.

"I'm all yours," he told her, trying to shut out everything else, lock it up tight. Her smile sliced into his throat. 

**Author's Note: Just so everyone knows, I don't actually hate Allura. Her role in this is so important; I can't stress it enough. And I know that we've been moving So Incredibly Slowly through this fic. I mean, really, the first week of the narrative took what? Five hundred pages? But it's going to start moving faster now. Our boys have quite a bit of growing up to do, but we're going to get the montage version.**

**Also, how are you? Holding up? Still liking the fic? I admit, I teared up while writing Lance's thoughts about how he wanted Keith to come back and move in to the apartment with him. Poor lonely, lost boy.**

**If you have a minute, reviews are always nice. (Special thanks to those of you who review every chapter. You make my day!)**


End file.
